


red, black, and gold

by KarenR2



Series: the sunrise was red, black and gold [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Don't underestimate the slow burn, Fluff, Gregstophski, Hacker Kyle, How their relationship came to be, Jealousy, Mercenaries, Multi, Other characters too but they're just minor/support, Polyamory, Slow Burn, They're stubborn boys, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8352193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarenR2/pseuds/KarenR2
Summary: They were back again, that British blonde boy and that bitter, eccentric Frenchman. Kyle hadn’t known that the meeting of their eyes—green to sharp hazel, to dark bistre—would spell the beginning of the end of the chaotic life he once knew; he never expected to be assimilated into their bizarre relationship and they never expected that he’d teach them love. They were a strange, unconventional three—a family of mercenaries, of dangerous, bittersweet things. It was supposed to be just another contract. It ended up being something a lot more binding. Christophe/Kyle/Gregory – Threesome Relationship. Gregstophski.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a beast to write omg. I didn't realise it'd take this long haha. But since I'm currently obsessed with these three, I managed to pull through it--and actually have quite a few more fics in plan?? Someone stop me, I must be crazy.
> 
> As always, please pardon my French.

 

* * *

The sunrise was red, black and gold.  
The colours of their profession.

  
_―_ _ **Joe Abercrombie**_ _, **Best Served Cold**_

* * *

He saw Gregory first.

It was their senior year of high school, the final year, where all he _should_ have had to worry about was getting the best grades, becoming valedictorian, and being accepted into Harvard or Yale or some other high-end college that his parents had been saving up his whole life for. He was pretty much guaranteed a golden ticket to being a lawyer or a surgeon, won not through luck but from gruelling battles against textbooks and stupid criterion, and sucking up to the adult idiots who’d give him credit and stellar recommendations in return for a handsome smile and sharp wits written on paper. That was all he was supposed to worry about; the other, outrageous things that happened in his hometown rarely even phased him anymore, so familiar and desensitised to that particular brand of crazy that he regarded it as part of the humdrum, mediocre life of a kid growing up in South Park.

Gregory coming back was peculiar, but didn’t raise any alarm bells in Kyle’s head.

It should have.

The blond Brit re-assimilated into South Park life as if he’d never left not even a decade ago. Kyle watched him during study period, tapping his pencil absentmindedly against his paper with his head balanced on his open palm. No one seemed to remember much of Gregory, other than him previously being a stuck-up douchebag who thought he was better than everyone else, but was still adored because of his accent and his swift and clever tongue. He could have been popular now too, with his angelic good looks and striking lemongrass hazel eyes and his charming, smooth demeanour. He wasn’t, though—at least, not as popular as he _should_ have been. It was hard to truly recall those times, but Kyle vaguely remembered that the blonde had always been outspoken, was always involved in some political happening or whatever. He was the _movement_ , the _liberation_ , the voice and the bellowing, terrifying cadence of _Vi-- -a Re-i-t-n--_ —

Kyle blinked.

Huh.

What?

In any case, this Gregory wasn’t quite right; the current blonde British boy didn’t match up to the one in Kyle’s murky memories. He wasn’t loud, didn’t shine so brightly with his mere presence. This one seemed… subdued, almost—as if he wanted to remain hidden instead of standing in the spotlight.

Gregory looked up from his notebook as if he sensed Kyle’s stare. Their eyes met—emerald to lime, shameless curiosity to staged friendliness.

Gregory smiled.

It was cold.

* * *

“I heard something interesting about you the other day.”

Kyle looked up from his textbook, glancing at his partner. They were in the library, doing a political sciences assignment together. Usually, Kyle detested group assignments with a passion—they were in their final year of high school, did they _really_ need to set up something so elementary to allow the lesser students to raise a grade and put the smarter ones through the tedious trial of doing most of the work? (Kyle didn’t usually think so unkindly; he valued the idea of students helping each other and it was mutually beneficial more often than not—he was just bitter because of far too many experiences in the contrary since elementary). But in this case, he was actually content with the set up. He’d been partnered with Gregory after all, who he’d learned quite quickly was very, very smart. Kyle was even beginning to feel threatened over his previously certain victory of being valedictorian.

“What did you hear?” Kyle asked him with a quirked eyebrow, instantly wary. He wasn’t particularly fond of rumours.

“Heard that you could do wonders with a computer,” Gregory answered lightly, flipping a page of his book. He glanced up. “Is it true?”

Suspicion made its way into emerald-green eyes. The boy was so easy to read. “Anyone with half a brain can be good with computers,” he responded casually. “You gotta be, in this day and age.”

Easy to read, but not dumb. Kyle Broflovski was more than just book-smart. Gregory smiled benignly, turning his upper body slightly to show that he was engaged more fully in the conversation. “Cute, but not what I meant.” He watched the way the other tensed with almost sadistic glee. “I heard you were a ghost, a phantom—invisible, but able to bypass things that no solid thing would be able to. Heard you could mix things around, change numbers, plant codes, leaving not even a single bit of your presence. I heard,” Gregory whispered lowly, leaning forward, “that you were a _voyeur._ ”

Kyle’s face instantly lit up, his cheeks a furious red and his eyes razor sharp and angry. For a moment, Gregory wondered if he was going to be hit. “What—the— ** _fuck_** are you talking about?” the redhead hissed, all pretences dropped as he glared nearly murderously at the other. It made a chill run down Gregory’s spine, which was a curious thing indeed; he hadn’t been aware that the Broflovski boy could emit such an aura of danger. He hadn’t known that he _was_ dangerous, in any sense of the word.

He tucked the observation away in his mental bank, his face giving nothing away. There was still that placid smile on his face, his hazel eyes dancing with interest and intrigue. “Perhaps not a voyeur in the traditional sense,” the blonde conceded (it wasn’t a concede at all), “but you _do_ peek into things that are meant to be private, no?”

“You have one minute to explain what the fuck you want and where you’re going with this, before I decide whether or not it’ll be worth it to punch you,” Kyle stated flatly.

Gregory had half the mind to take the threat seriously.

“I have a proposition,” the British boy said, the words adopting a slightly detached, no-nonsense quality. Kyle frowned, wondering why such a crisp, professional tone seemed so familiar on his tongue; then he hazily remembered a warehouse and an articulate voice providing a premediated plan, and maybe propositions were something natural to the blonde after all. “I need something _looked_ at, something that may be difficult to get into without… _proper_ means of access. I was wondering if you’d be the right person for that job.”

Kyle crossed his arms, regarding the other coolly. “Depends on what exactly you want peeping into and why.”

“And how much I’m willing to provide in return for this service?”

The redhead narrowed his eyes. He had to actively tell himself that the blonde _wasn’t_ telling a Jew joke, since he doubted Gregory would be so crass. He took a breath through his nose and nodded curtly. “Sure.”

Gregory continued to smile at him, ignorant of how he’d dodged Kyle’s legendary temper. “It’s nothing that you would feel guilty over. I’m in the business of, let’s say, uncovering corporate corruption, and there’s this particular, private company that may be exploiting land resources that they actually do not have the rights to. I would need someone of a _particular_ skill set to either confirm or refute my suspicions. If my suspicions are true, I will be forwarding an anonymous email of the evidence to the plaintiff currently fighting against this company. I would be willing to pay the person who can procure this information _quite_ handsomely.”

Kyle’s eyebrows shot up at the brief explanation. He looked mildly disbelieving. “Serious?” he asked, not knowing what to make of his words. Over the years, he’d developed his penchant for hacking into an actual, formidable skill; there were many times when he’d used this skill during his and his friends’ numerous adventures and private investigations, even using it as a key tool to save some people, whole towns, because being in a place called South Park that kind of thing was deemed as a normal pastime. He’d used it for more devious activities too, such as shifting around student placements in homerooms so that he and his best friends would always be in the same one, and scoring tickets to fast-selling concerts the second they were released online using a pre-programmed auto-purchase code, RSVP’ing their seats before anyone else could even click that refresh button. His most shameful usage of the skill, however, would undoubtedly have been when he was involved in a scheme with _Cartman_ , doing his dirty work for a very high payout but at the expense of underpaid minorities. Kyle had been so guilty during the final stage that he’d faked being worse than he actually was and Cartman was forced to pull back the whole operation, calling him a useless Jew that couldn’t do a damn thing right and would forever be wasting people’s precious time. Kyle hadn’t felt too cut by that, really.

Those instances were for either personal gain or personal amusement, with odd jobs here and there from people he knew that didn’t go above the level of hacking into their boy/girlfriend’s email account or Facebook to check if they were being cheated on. None of the requests had been so… altruistic.

“Yes, I’m serious,” Gregory answered him slowly, as if he couldn’t even comprehend the notion of joking about this kind of thing.

“But why do you want to do this?” Kyle asked, confused.

The blonde quirked an eyebrow. “I fight for justice,” he answered. “I thought you knew.”

Kyle did know. Somehow, he did.

He mulled it over for a moment, tapping his fingers on the desk, and then finally shrugged and nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he said. He had nothing better to do, and it was for a good cause. Kyle had always been a sucker for those.

Gregory’s smile was unchanging.

“Wonderful.”

* * *

Gregory sent the details of the assignment via a private, encrypted email to the address **hippopotom8ing@aeol.com**.

He received a reply three days later from with all of the company’s private files, decrypted and completely incriminating.

He was very impressed, but when he told the results of his test to his partner, the other had just stared stonily at the screen before walking away without a word.

When Gregory sent the payment to the Broflovski boy, he didn’t have the pleasure of seeing the redhead checking his phone due to an alert from his bank and then promptly dropping it and screaming “ _Holy shit!_ ” in the middle of a shopping trip with his brother, who, along with the surrounding strangers, had looked at him as if he was deranged.

* * *

In retrospect, maybe Gregory shouldn’t have paid him so much money.

“I need to talk to you,” Kyle said one lunch break, approaching him at his cafeteria table.

Gregory sat with a group of people he wasn’t exactly friends with, but they would have liked to say they were anyway: Wendy, Token, Bebe, Clyde, Red, and Annie. He was aware that they were a ‘popular’ group, with Wendy being the class president and her dating Token, local superstar and young entrepreneur, along with Bebe who was arguably the prettiest girl in school and Clyde her jock boyfriend. He wasn’t too sure what Red and Annie’s significance was, but he didn’t really care to know it, really. He simply sat with them because it was the optimum seat to observe a particular redhead, and their popularity was intimidating enough that people never dared to approach him.

That being said, the Jew’s unexpected appearance immediately attracted the attentions of the whole table. They looked on with keen curiosity.

“Whatever for?” Gregory asked innocently. It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ want to go with the redhead—quite the contrary, really. He was always so dreadfully bored with the mundane student chatter that often occupied their table, although Wendy sometimes had something interesting to say. Not then, though. Gregory would welcome whatever excuse Kyle would give him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t mess with him a little first.

“It’s private,” Kyle said, casting a confused glance at the others when the girls at the table began to giggle to each other and exchange strange looks.

“Something to do with _school work_ , right, Kyle?” Red asked, expression mischievous.

A puzzled frown. “Um, yeah. Sure.”

More giggles. “Bet they have a lot of _chemistry_ to do together,” Annie said slyly.

“Or maybe they’d like to do something more to do with  _physics,_ ” Red countered, her grin growing wider.

“Or maybe its math, and they’ll spend the lunch break _multiplying_.”

The girls erupted into badly-suppressed giggles, unaffected by Kyle’s perplexed but steadily more pissed off glare. He had a feeling that he was being made the butt of a joke and he didn’t know whether or not they were _actually_ saying innuendos—and if they were, that only succeeded to puzzle him even more because _why_.

Gregory watched the confusion and irritation grow on the redhead’s face and he had to suppress his own chuckle. The poor boy. He staged a polite cough and gave a meaningful glance around the table. “Ladies,” he said, and in his tone was a bemused reprimand. It earned him sheepish grins. The boys, however, were not sporting the Cheshire-like grins the girls were harbouring: Token looked exasperated and Clyde was just eternally clueless. He stood up. “Let’s go, Kyle.”

As they began to walk away, Wendy called out, “Have fun on your _study date_!” which was followed by louder laughter.

Kyle frowned at Gregory, instincts telling him to blame the blonde for whatever just happened. “What the hell was that about?” he asked as they made their way across the cafeteria.

Gregory replied without missing a beat. “They believe that we would make ‘a hot couple.’”

Kyle nearly tripped over his own two feet.

“ _What_?” he squawked, staring at him wide-eyed and incredulous.

Gregory regarded him from the corner of his eyes, a smile on his lips. It was partly his fault, anyway. Wendy had noticed his staring at the Broflovski boy and had called him out on it one afternoon with the girls at the table. Gregory had smoothly replied that Kyle was just in his line of sight, and he was at least nicer to look at than the resident fatass who sat at the same table. That had caused a nearly explosive reaction, the girls immediately squealing and Wendy shouting “I called it!” before they promptly began to discuss amongst themselves his compatibility with the Jew. Gregory had gone along with it simply because it amused him, the idea not repulsive to him in the slightest.

“Just the standard speculation of imaginative girls,” Gregory dismissed with a short wave of his hand.

“You say _standard_ ,” Kyle said, still looking rather flabbergasted.

“Yes, I say standard,” the blonde parroted, rolling his eyes slightly. But then his expression took on a mischievous quality. “You are the subject of _much_ speculation, Kyle—I’m sure you must have known? I haven’t been here long and already I’ve heard many _speculations_ about you with numerous indivi—”

“ _Excuse me_?” he interrupted, glaring suddenly. “Why the fuck are you even talking about me? What the hell have people been saying?”

They made it out of the cafeteria and continued to walk through the school hallway, Gregory following Kyle’s lead. “It’s nothing _bad_ ,” Gregory said, catching the warning tone in Kyle’s voice that told him to tread carefully. “I wouldn’t even call them rumours. Like I said, they’re just the wild imaginings of bored girls.  One of them, for example, is that you and Stanley would also make a ‘hot couple,’ and let me assure you—that one has been around even when I _first_ came here.”

Kyle’s cheeks tinted pink, his lips pressed together tightly. “There’s nothing going on between me and Stan,” he said, and the way he spat out that statement, weary and scripted, made Gregory think he’d repeated those exact same words countless of times before.

He lifted an eyebrow at him. “I never accused you of it,” he said calmly. “I was only answering your question. You needn’t defend yourself to me.”

The way Kyle’s blush deepened slightly with embarrassment was very interesting. Gregory wondered how far his blush _could_ go, and for a brief moment was a bit disappointed that he couldn’t see the tips of the other’s ears covered by his curly red hair. He would bet his cutlass that they would turn red too if embarrassed enough. “Just making sure,” Kyle grumbled, looking away. There was a beat, and then he asked cautiously, “What else do they say about me?”

Gregory sighed, turning his head to look at him more fully. “Surely you didn’t drag me out here just to discuss high school gossip,” he stated bluntly. Kyle had led them outside into the recess area but away from the other groups chatting idly amongst themselves at the outdoor tables. There was an intimate privacy here, in the shadow of the school building, the noise from the others muted as if they were far away. The air was cool. “What is it that you really wish to speak about, Kyle?”

The other shoved his hands into his pockets and Gregory could actually _see_ the way his mind shifted from humdrum school worries to something a bit more serious. “Why did you send me four grand,” he stated bluntly, eyes narrowed and not a trace of that tell-tale blush on his cheeks.

Amused with how he was able to shake off the discomfiture so easily, Gregory quipped, “It was for the job I asked of you.” He quirked an elegant brow. “Do you not remember?”

“Of course I remember!” he snapped. He didn’t like the blonde’s tone. “I’m asking you why you sent me _four_ _grand._ Where the fuck did you get so much money to spend so easily?”

“That’s a rather intrusive question to ask,” Gregory returned; he was beginning to feel a familiar excitement. Over the course of their time together, he found that he rather liked arguing with the redhead. The intricate dance of sharp wits had always been his favourite type of battle. “What does it matter to you where I get my money from?”

“It _matters_ because it’s fucking _suspicious_ ,” Kyle said, a controlled heat in his voice. “No one just _gives_  four grand away, not even Token—and he’s the richest kid in South Park.”

“I didn’t _give_ you four grand,” the blonde corrected. “It was in return for a service.”

“A service where I hadn’t yet specified how much you needed to pay me. People usually wait for that kind of shit before they send anything, much less four thousand.”

Gregory shrugged. “You did me a _great_ service then. I only sent you what I believed your services were worth.”

“Which was four grand?” Kyle questioned, brows furrowed.

The other smirked and casually crossed his arms, letting his body lean into the building wall as he coolly regarded the equally watching Jew. “Your particular skillset,” Gregory began, “is quite valuable. Surely you know this?”

“Of course I do,” he said, scowling.

“So why do you think the amount I paid you is so excess? It’s as if you don’t realise your own worth.”

“But _you_ do.”

Gregory wanted to smile, feeling oddly pleased.

“I do.”

It was amazing. He could actually see Kyle piecing all this information together in his head, was able to observe how his green eyes sharpened as he appraised him, making the connections, remembering, knowing.

“You didn’t ask me to hack into that company’s secret files because of some dumb Boy Scout reason,” Kyle said bluntly. “You did it for a job.”

This time, Gregory did smile. “Correct.”

“You let me in on your cut because I did the hacking for you.”

The British man minutely tilted his head, acquiescing.

“Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me?”

“I had no reason to,” Gregory merely said. It was the truth.

Kyle still wasn’t pleased. He scowled at him, his hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t appreciate being played, Gregory.”

“I didn’t play you, Kyle,” the blonde assured. “You did good work, and what I said was and is still true. The only thing I omitted was that I was being paid by certain persons to uncover their deviance.”

Kyle frowned. “I did the hacking,” he said bluntly. “What the fuck did you do?”

Gregory observed him, an odd, almost chilling countenance befalling his expression suddenly. He didn’t answer for a moment, only watched the redhead with cold, assessing hazel eyes. It made Kyle’s hair stand on end, the gaze strangely invasive, as if Gregory was judging his worth to be sold to the most appropriate buyer—he felt small, less like a human. Finally, the blonde spoke, the words casual but weighted in a way that Kyle didn’t yet understand.

“Would you like to see?”

The offer was nonchalant, left open in the air, but oddly dense. Gregory’s eyes didn’t leave Kyle’s face and he watched closely for any signs that he should revoke his words. But all he saw was an open, wary curiosity; it was a dangerous thing.

“Yeah, I would,” Kyle said after a beat, spurred on by something reckless, by some innate desire to seek out the things that were mysterious to him.

Gregory looked at him and wondered if Kyle would be the cat foolish enough to be killed by something as simple as curiosity.

* * *

The next day, Kyle followed the other home.

He never saw Gregory catch the bus, didn’t know where he lived or even the general direction he went to after school. He always just seemed to… _disappear_ after the final school bell rung or after they were finished with their scheduled assignment meeting. He was like a phantom that disappeared at the strike of the hour, but Kyle would rather think of him as a modern-day Cinderella because that was _much_ more amusing. The thought of him losing his usual polite and strict decorum the second he got home to transform into a complete slob and the generic greasy couch potato was hilarious. Kyle could dream.

“So, are your parents home?” Kyle asked as they walked side-by-side. He took note of how they were walking more towards the lower-end of the town by Starks Pond, rather than the rich side in the north where Kyle had expected the pompous British boy to have resided.

Gregory chuckled. “You assume that I live with my parents. No, they are back in Britain. I believe they would rather throw themselves into a river than return to America again.”

Kyle snorted, but strangely understood that sentiment. “So, you live on your own?” That was… surprising, although perhaps not too much. After all, if Gregory was earning as much as he was suspecting, then he could definitely afford his own place, especially in a small town like South Park.

“Wrong. I do not.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, surprised again. “You have a roommate?” He wondered about the person who could live with _Gregory_ of all people. They must either be a patient, quietly suffering soul, or someone as pretentious as he was. “And how do _they_ feel about your shady activities?”

The blonde laughed quietly, a low baritone. “Wrong assumption again. Perhaps you should cease with these wild guesses to avoid further embarrassment?”

Maturely, the redhead ignored the taunt in favour of gaping a little. “Your roommate is _in_ on this?” he immediately connected. “What are you, some sort of criminal gang?”

“A gang would imply that we are _more_ than two people. No. It’s just us two. It always has been.”

“I see you didn’t deny the ‘criminal’ bit,” Kyle remarked, suspicion in his eyes.

Gregory returned the look slyly, a slight smile on his lips. “Well, it’d be pointless to do so, fellow _accomplice_ of mine.”

He had to give him that one. Kyle’s record wasn’t exactly pristine clean either, not by a longshot.

“What’s your roommate like?” he asked instead, already trying to paint a picture of the peculiar person that Gregory would choose to share living space with.

“You’ll see soon enough,” the Brit replied vaguely. He didn’t seem inclined to ruin the surprise.

They continued the rest of their journey mostly in silence. Kyle found himself in part of a town he usually never visited. It was low-end, far from the town centre, with mediocrely maintained apartments that spanned a couple of blocks southeast of Starks Pond. It was quiet, nearly empty, the streets almost taking a ghost-town quality with how sparse it was of life. As Kyle followed the other, he wondered if he was making as much as he first thought—but then again, this secluded space seemingly forgotten by everything was exactly the right kind of area a person who didn’t want attention would live in. It was strange, to think of Gregory as a criminal. Kyle wished that he’d brought a knife or some sort of weapon just in case something untoward happened (his impulsiveness didn’t always reward him, he’d observed); he belatedly remembered that there was a reason why he never could seem to fully trust those guarded hazel eyes. In any case, if Kyle _was_ jumped, he would be happy to beat the crap out of the British boy the first chance he got, although a part of him couldn’t really picture Gregory being that type of low-end thug. He seemed… classier than that, as if he himself would consider that type of criminal activity to be blasé and amateur. Kyle wondered when he started having expectations of him.

“Here we are,” the blonde on his mind murmured. “We’re on the third floor.”

They entered the apartment; there was no one in the lobby, not even at the service desk. They waited for the elevator and stepped inside, Gregory pressing the button for the third floor.

“My roommate always takes the stairs,” he commented as the lift rose up. “He’s always paranoid that the lifts are a trap and would serve as his metal coffin when it either fell or it encased him in forever.”

Kyle looked at him strangely. He didn’t know whether or not he was joking. The demure smile that Gregory flashed at him didn’t help matters at all.

They exited and Kyle followed the other to an unassuming room numbered 306. He took out his keys and put them in the slot, turning it and opening the door.

It was a larger apartment than Kyle had been expecting, and very, very sparse. In fact, when Kyle entered, he wondered if anyone really lived here at all. It looked like someone had _just_ moved in and their furniture and personal belongings hadn’t arrived yet, but that couldn’t be, because Gregory had been back in South Park for nearly two months now. There was only a plain but nice-looking couch in the living room with a rectangular coffee table in front of it, newspapers, articles, and miscellaneous paper on its surface. There was no television, no shelves or dining table or any other chairs other than the two stools at the kitchen island. There were a few boxes lying around against the walls and the kitchen island counter, filled with what looked to be stacks of papers and folders and binders, and the windows were covered with rudimentary curtains that looked like they came with the apartment. Kyle looked at the whole set-up strangely. Even Kenny’s house had more substance than this.

“Thoughts?” Gregory asked, watching him.

Kyle clicked his tongue. “I take it you don’t have guests over too often.”

That amused quirk of his lips. “You assume right… for once.”

“Har har.” Kyle glanced around, not knowing what to do with himself and Gregory not offering any suggestions. “So, where’s your roommate?” he asked, trying to keep a casual tone.

“Here.”

Kyle jumped slightly at the sound of the new, rough voice that broke the quiet of the apartment. They both simultaneously turned towards the sound, Kyle feeling oddly nervous. He gripped the strap of his shoulder bag, posture tense, and quickly found the third party that had emerged from the hallway as silent as a ghost. He was roughly the same height as Gregory, broad shouldered and with toned arms, standing with a slightly slouched posture that screamed cool, confident indifference. But there was an air about him that was riddled with tension too; his dark eyes watched Kyle unblinkingly, his face stony. There were heavy bags under his eyes, premature crinkles around them, and he looked older than he probably was, not only because of his features but because of the aged look in his gaze. He looked at Kyle with that same piercing manner that he sometimes caught Gregory looking at him with, but with this guy—it was somehow more intense, more intimate, as if he was searching for something in Kyle’s face that would either spur him to spare him or snap his neck. He suppressed a shiver, his heart hammering in his chest.

Gregory watched them silently, unreadable.

“H-Hi,” Kyle said, breaking the suffocating silence that had befallen them. He cursed his own stutter, his cheeks tinting slightly. “Um, I’m Kyle.” He held out a hand.

The other was unhurried in everything he did. He took his time just observing his face, looking him up and down, until those eyes settled on Kyle’s outstretched hand. After a tense, awkward moment, the brunette stepped forward and Kyle’s chest tightened even more, inexplicably. When he clasped their hands together, the other’s palms were rough, the pads of his fingers coarse. His grip was unyielding, warning of an intimidating strength.

“Christophe,” the other responded, voice low and thick with a French accent.

Why did he seem so familiar.

They must have been staring at each other for an inappropriate length of time without Kyle knowing, because Gregory suddenly coughed and remarked dryly, “Please don’t start undressing each other until _after_ you procure a private room.”

Kyle let go of the other’s hand as if it burned. He scowled, his face pink, casting an irritated glare at the blonde’s direction but unable to look him in the eye. Christophe was glaring too, thin lips pursed, and Kyle missed the way they exchanged a silent look through their warning eyes.

“Don’t fucking start, Gregory,” the brunette voiced, the sound a low growl.

The Brit shrugged and then moved forward, cutting between them to make his way into the kitchen. “Refreshments, Kyle?” he asked instead, moving the subject along.

“Yeah, um, sure,” the redhead answered, cursing the blonde silently for leaving him alone with this familiar stranger despite the fact that they were still technically in the same room. “Coffee, if you have it.”

“Of course we do,” Gregory said, bemused at the very notion that they wouldn’t.

With the other preoccupied, Kyle had no choice but to glance at the silent brunette. The taller man was still looking at him when he did and when their eyes met, Christophe blinked and then turned, walking towards the kitchen as well. Kyle followed him automatically.

“Did Gregory tell you that I was coming?” Kyle asked, worried suddenly that he was disturbing him.

“Oui,” the Frenchman replied shortly. He gestured to the stool at the bench, to which Kyle politely declined with a shake of his head. He didn’t want to sit if the other two were standing, and there were only two stools.

“Christophe wouldn’t have been happy if I brought in an unannounced guest,” Gregory supplied as he brewed their coffee. “He likes to be informed of such a thing.”

The other didn’t acknowledge the words at all. He just dug into his pockets and took out a box of Marlboros, stoutly putting a cigarette between his lips.

“That’s awfully rude,” Gregory clipped, and Kyle for a moment wondered if he really cared about politeness or whether he just wanted to take a rib at his roommate. “We have a guest. He may not be comfortable with you smoking.”

Christophe narrowed his eyes and grunted, replying the blonde with a gesture of a specific finger that very clearly illustrated how many fucks he gave about proper decorum. But Kyle didn’t miss the way Christophe had glanced at him, a curious look in his gaze. The redhead shrugged, offering, “I don’t mind.” It wasn’t completely true, as he hated it when people smoked in his presence, but he didn’t want to impose on one of his hosts. Plus, seeing Christophe with a cigarette in his mouth was oddly… fitting, which was ludicrous because hadn’t they just met? But Kyle couldn’t help but stare at him, trying to place where he knew him from because this nagging feeling in his gut told him that he was, in fact, _familiar_ , not a stranger at all.

A flicker of emotion passed through the other’s eyes; Kyle couldn’t read it, but he had hope that it was something positive. It was then that the brunette took out his lighter and deftly lit up the end of the cancer stick, leaving the dark green lighter on the bench. He blew out the smoke in Gregory’s direction, to which the blonde didn’t expressly react but his face did turn stony.

Kyle wondered if they were actually friends.

“Kyle, how do you take your coffee?” Gregory asked, not looking at him.

“Black,” he said simply.

They stood there in silence as Gregory finished their cups of coffee. He made only two mugs of it, placing them casually in front of Kyle and himself. Steam rose from the dark solution, contained in plain, white porcelain. Kyle decided not to comment on how Gregory hadn’t made Christophe a mug.

“Thank you,” he murmured instead, letting the drink cool before he tried it.

“You’re welcome,” Gregory replied, looking oddly pleased. Kyle further wondered how often he heard manners in his own home. “So, shall we discuss business, gentlemen?” he asked, finally broaching the topic that Kyle’s presence was here for.

Christophe shrugged, turning so that his back was to Gregory and leaned against the counter. He blew out more smoke in the opposite direction of them. “What did ‘e want to know?” he asked, nonchalant.

“He wanted to see what kind of work I did,” Gregory answered, taking a sip of his mug as he leaned a palm on the island. “From the Timmon case.”

“I would ‘ardly call zat work,” the Frenchman snorted.

“Not one of the more exciting cases, I know.”

Kyle glanced between them suspiciously. “What the fuck are you guys?” he asked bluntly, deciding to cut straight to the point.

Christophe gave him a mildly amused look while Gregory smiled. “If we tell you, we’ll have to kill you,” the blonde said lightly, like a riddle, a strange gleam in his eyes.

Kyle stiffened, narrowed his own. “Don’t think you will,” he challenged, “considering you’re the one who invited me here.”

The brunette chuckled, throaty and deep. Kyle decided he liked the sound. “Don’t zink he appreciates ze game you’re trying to play, Gregory.” He met emerald-green eyes. “Alzough, per’aps you should listen. You never know…” His expression was unreadable. “He may be telling ze truth.”

Kyle shifted on his feet, glancing between the two of them. He didn’t know whose threat was more palpable—both, despite their easy tones, had been delivered with such casualness that it was eerie. He wondered suddenly how he got here, in the company of potential killers; still, he wasn’t as freaked out as he probably should have been, since it was sad to say that the circumstance wasn’t new. His best frenenemy was a killer, after all, and he severely doubted that these two were quite as insane as Eric Cartman. In any case, threats to his life weren’t appreciated and he conveyed this through glaring eyes and a warning tone. “Listen, if you really intended to kill me then I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have fucking given me four grand for a job. Dead people don’t need money, even the ones still walking. Can we cut the bullshit? The ‘psyche out the new guy’ thing is getting old really fast.”

“Well, what do you think we are?” Gregory asked, clearly having a good time if his pleased smile was any indication.

“Cryptic assholes who are slowly beginning to piss me off,” Kyle replied; his words were barbed.

Christophe scoffed.

“Now, now,” Gregory said, bemusement in his tone. “I’m sure you can work it out yourself, Kyle. You’re smart enough to. Remember the job that I had you do—we were paid to uncover those secrets, despite the dubious means. The end result may have tipped in the favour of society, but let me assure you: the ones who usually hire us are not of the same ethical cut.” He put down his mug, the sound a solid _thunk_ on the island. “We cannot be found on the internet,” he said, maintaining eye contact, playing the game. “Our names are only passed through word of mouth, and are only given to those who are desperate enough that they would hire us at the expense of a personal moral code and a sizeable chunk in their wallet. These people contact me and I weigh the job. I plan out the logistics, handle the negotiations, network with people, retrieve the necessary information, and clean up afterwards to make sure we are ghosts. Christophe, here, is useful for only the groundwork.”

“Fuck you, beetch,” the brunette said flippantly, not even turning around as he addressed him. He was staring unseeingly at the opposite wall, mindlessly smoking his cigarette.

“A valuable member of our two-person team, nonetheless,” Gregory said dryly. “He’s efficient, a weapon and a tool. You simply point him in the right direction and you shoot.”

Kyle looked between them, the realisation dawning on him. “You’re mercenaries for hire,” he said flatly.

Gregory continued to watch him, but his lips tilted upwards slightly. “Good boy.”

Kyle tensed, suspicion crawling itself back onto his face and pinching it. He clenched his fists on the countertop. “Why are you telling me this,” he demanded, green eyes sharp. He hadn’t missed the statement that only people who needed them knew of their names, and the fact that he was revealing so much to him right now… It made Kyle instantly wary.

Gregory must have seen him connect the dots because he smiled at him indulgently. Kyle resented the expression; it made him feel like Gregory was looking down at him, and the praising look in his eyes was reserved for a dog that had done a particularly clever trick. “Because I think we can work out some sort of contract between us,” he answered.

“You want me to work for you?” Kyle clarified, frowning. “Do you explain how your operation works to everyone you hire?”

“No.” He glanced at Christophe, but the brunette was still facing away from them, silent and listening. “We’re proposing more of a partnership, rather than a temporary hire.”

The redhead’s eyes slightly widened. “You want me to be part of your little mercenary club?” The idea seemed ludicrous. “You must really be desperate for an on-site hacker, huh.”

“In a way, yes. A hacker would be an invaluable addition to our team and would save us a lot of hassle during missions. But that’s not the primary reason.” Something changed in Gregory then, made his expression cold. He lost his smile and looked at Kyle so unreadably that the redhead felt dread drop into his gut. “We currently have a job that I think you might be _highly_ interested in,” he said. “It’s the whole reason why we came back to South Park. We don’t need your help to complete it, _but_ …” He glanced at Christophe again. “But perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement that will satisfy all parties involved.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Please wait here,” Gregory said, straightening up. “I’ll retrieve the case file.”

He then left them without another word, Kyle incredulously following him with his eyes until Gregory disappeared around the bend of the hallway. There was a tense silence as only he and Christophe were left in the room, the other offering no words of explanation and Kyle somehow doubting he would if he asked. But then he realised something and he frowned, turning so that he faced the brunette. “’We’?” he repeated, what Gregory said finally registering. “You’ve been in South Park before?”

Christophe crushed his used up cigarette on the nearby ashtray then turned to look at him directly too, elbow leaning on the counter. “You really don’t remember,” he said, voice husky. His expression was so intense, his eyes dark. Kyle realised that they were brown.

“I…” Kyle pursed his lips, his brows furrowed. Christophe’s face was familiar, somehow; the rough undulations of his voice vaguely pricked at his hazy memory. He couldn’t look away from the vice that was Christophe’s watching gaze and he unconsciously licked his dry lips, throat feeling a little tight. Because of this, it was impossible to miss the way those dark brown eyes flicked downward to follow the movement and Kyle felt himself flushing, his heart beating hard in his chest. He could smell the tobacco on the other’s breath and strangely enough, he wasn’t repulsed by it. He just stared, wanting to decipher the _look_ that Christophe was giving him and feeling distressed when he couldn’t confidently do so. The Frenchman was searching for something; he was disappointed; he was angry, irritated with him, as if it was his fault that he couldn’t remember. He was melancholy. He looked alone.

“Christophe, I…”

Whatever it was that he was going to say (he didn’t really know), it was interrupted by Gregory’s re-appearance. Again, he wondered how long they’d been staring for. “Here we are,” said the blonde, walking towards them to resume his previous place on the other side of the kitchen island. While Kyle turned towards him, Christophe remained unmoving, hardly acknowledging Gregory’s presence. The Brit placed a yellow manila folder on top of the counter, a pale hand resting on top of it.

“What’s this?” Kyle asked suspiciously, glaring at the folder as if it might contain venomous snakes.

“Incentive,” Gregory replied vaguely, “for you to take up a contract with us.”

Foreboding settled in Kyle’s gut.

Gregory opened up the folder to the first sheet and Kyle’s eyes were drawn to it like a beacon. The name printed in bold at the top and the picture paperclipped to the top right corner were instantly recognised and the foreboding instantly turned into like panicked dread, threatening to either come up his throat as barf or crush his lungs.

On it, it read:

**Target: GERALD BROFLOVSKI.**

* * *

Christophe had dreams. Nightmares, mostly, but sometimes he dreamed.

In their line of work, nightmares weren’t unusual. The Frenchman had to do horrible things, had seen the very worst of humanity far younger than what the faggot God should have permitted. No one remained clean after having experiences like that—no one remained untouched. He never bothered Gregory with his nightmares, not actively; the blonde only knew of them when he heard Christophe shouting from across the hall, usually followed by something crashing, in the dead of night. When they started to live together, Gregory had checked on him the first couple of times but was always violently rebuffed, eventually learning the lesson that he was unwanted. His presence was not a source of comfort to Christophe, not really, even when they started to sleep together.

He didn’t really trust the blonde, despite the fact that he allowed him to hold his life in his hands.

Christophe was good at that: letting others use his body, selling it for the right price without a qualm, but never letting anything touch his guarded heart.

Unfortunately, the barricades that he put up around himself fell away the moment he fell asleep.

The nightmares he was used to, in that sad, pitiful way. Still, he didn’t look forward to them, hated how they made him feel weak and helpless, made him relive the terrors that he’d rather leave far, far behind. (It was why he hated the thought of Gregory seeing him in such a state after a nightmare; he didn’t want to appear weak.) You’d think that he’d prefer the dreams to the nightmares, but Christophe didn’t know if he did. The dreams also invoked a sense of vulnerability in him, a state of being that he abhorred, and he was inclined to think that he’d rather nightmares instead. They at least prompted a familiar emotion in him: fear. The dreams, however, made him feel something else: comfort, a thing he rarely ever felt.

In these dreams that usually started as a nightmare, he was comforted by a face he didn’t recognise, by a voice he didn’t know. Usually, the dream would begin with him being viciously shredded, violently torn apart by sharp, merciless teeth, the growls and barks deafening and the darkness so palpable that it felt like he’d be trapped with the beasts forever and ever and ever and ever. But then those monsters would be chased away and he was aware instead of the sensation of being held, of arms wrapped around him and a hand tightly clasping his. The voice would say things to him softly and sometimes the words were nonsensical (why was it talking about mother?), but regardless of what it said, Christophe was inexplicably comforted with the mere fact that he wasn’t alone in the nightmare.

 _We’ll get you home_.

The words were somehow burned into him, even if he couldn’t remember who had said them.

Gregory found out about this dream only the once. They’d slept together and strangely enough, Christophe didn’t feel the need to kick Gregory out of his room as soon as they were done. He explained it away to exhaustion, a temporary lapse of sanity as he allowed himself to fall asleep in the other’s presence. That night, he had the dream again, but without the wolves that wanted to consume him. There was just that voice, that boy. Emerald eyes, he remembered. That stupid lime green hat he noted too. But mostly, it was that voice, gentle and singing, joining him in his last moments in a final duet. When he woke up, Gregory had been watching him with a peculiar face.

“What were you dreaming about?” he had asked, curious.

“Why?” Christophe had returned, his voice rough with well-rested sleep.

“You were smiling.”

Christophe had rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling. He had ached for a cigarette. “Green eyes,” he had whispered, confessed, his expression blank. That was all he said.

He dreamed of death, of dying, of blood and murder and torture in hell.

The boy he dreamed of was his saving grace, although he loathed to credit God for anything good in his life. The boy with the green eyes was his, even if he wasn’t real, and he hated and loved him at the same time.

So when they received the case of Gerald Broflovski, Christophe naturally wanted to deny that it was an act of fate, because if it was a premediated plan of God to help him find the boy of his dreams, then he considered it cheating and conniving. To him, there was no choice but to hold tightly onto that olive branch, and the faggot God knew it.

* * *

 It wasn’t the name of the middle-aged man that had alerted them at first. It was his place of residence.

“South Park?” Christophe asked, surprise in his scratchy voice.

“Yes. It’s familiar to you too, isn’t it?” Gregory said, a frown on his usually sociable face. He sat down with the brunette on their couch, handing him the case file.

The Frenchman rolled the town name on his tongue silently a few times, mirroring the frown. “Oui,” he finally admitted. He opened the file. “I… I lived zere for a short time when I waz a child.” He looked at the man’s bearded face—a stranger. “I do not remember much of it, though.”

“As did I,” the blonde murmured. “I was there the same time you were and moved soon after too. It’s odd, though. I don’t remember much else either.” He watched Christophe as he idly flicked through the file he’d put together, everything they needed to start their case on the Broflovski man. “But anyway, it has a surprisingly high payout for a relatively straightforward job. I’d already said we’d take it.”

Christophe acknowledged him with a grunt, but then paused on one of the pages, his hand stilling above a photograph of the man’s family. Dark bistre eyes narrowed at the image, his lips pursing as he felt an abnormal tightening in his chest. That boy… looked familiar, terrifyingly so. “Kyle Broflovski,” he read, expression stony.

Gregory nodded. “I remember him. He was one of the boys I was classmates with. Nice enough, I think. Pity that we have to pay his family a visit.”

The brunette didn’t seem to hear him; he was intently focused on that picture, eyes unblinking. “Green eyes…” he finally murmured, his hand dropping so that his finger was gently pressed against the cheek. He tapped the face absently, burned the image of it into his retinas. “I knew ‘im too.”

His partner quirked an eyebrow at him. “How?” he asked. “You were home-schooled, if I remember correctly, and grounded for most of the time. How would you have…” But his sentence trailed off, his mind already digging away at his own memories as he tried to remember his time at South Park. He usually had such good memory—why was his life at that town so hazy to him? “I… sent him to you,” Gregory said, frowning, feeling tense. “Him and two other boys. His friends. Stanley and… Cartman?”

If Kyle’s name had been a trigger, Cartman’s was another one—and this one was violent. A sneer twisted itself on the brunette’s face, his eyes turning sharp and vicious. “That cocksucking _bastard_ ,” he snarled. “He was the one who—”

Who what?

Why did he hate the name, the boy, Cartman so?

He suddenly remembered guard dogs, an alarm, a blinding spotlight. The USO show.

His death.

Those dreams had been real?

“ _Ze fuck_ ,” he breathed, looking at Gregory.

Gregory looked back at him, perplexed. He didn’t remember.

In a way, it made sense. There were very few things more intense than your own death; the memory was closer to his heart, always had been, all this time.

“Christophe?”

He shook his head, suddenly dropping the folder on the couch between them as he shakily stood up. He needed a smoke—badly. “Alright,” he said curtly. He reached forward and snatched up his pack of cigarettes from the table. “When do we leave?”

The brunette was already walking away when Gregory answered, “In three days.” Hazel eyes followed him as the other lit up a cigarette and made his way towards the door. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he grunted between the stick. He didn’t offer any more explanation and slammed the door behind him as he left, leaving Gregory confused and suspicious.

He had a feeling he was missing something important.

* * *

For some reason, Christophe didn’t want them to complete the job right away. The case was simple and straightforward enough that they could have done it within two weeks at their _very_ slowest, but the brunette was adamant that they not do so (it was fun, explaining the delay to their contractor). He had this strange obsession with the young green-eyed redhead of the family, wanted Gregory to watch him, analyse him, feel him out. Gregory even enrolled himself into the school just so that he could keep an eye on him, to try and find out what was so special about this Jewish boy. He found the whole matter a little ridiculous really, wondering if he was simply experiencing the backlash of the eccentric Frenchman’s first obsessive infatuation.

They’d argued about it vehemently one night, after a whole month in South Park. They couldn’t keep pushing back their job—their client was getting _impatient._ The longer that they stayed here, the riskier it was, and Christophe was getting _dangerously attached—_

It was then that Christophe finally admitted to him the memory that had alluded Gregory all this time.

“He waz zere with me,” the brunette confessed, eyes angry and defencive and suddenly desperate for his partner to understand. “He waz zere with me when I died.”

The idea of Christophe actually _dying_ was a blow to Gregory’s gut, effectively stealing the breath from his lungs and making him feel ill. The more the other talked about the events all those years ago, the war on Canada, the USO show, Kyle and Stan and Cartman, the MAC, _Viva La Resistance_ —

The more he talked about it, the more the memories came back to him, as if Christophe was the inexperienced dentist forcibly pulling out his teeth with his bare hands. Gregory felt winded, unable to believe that he’d _forgotten_ such a momentous thing, the horrible vision of mass death and the world just narrowly dodging the apocalypse—of a movement that he, if not founded, had _planned_. He’d sat down, his mind whirling.

“I owe it to ‘im, to zis boy,” he had heard Christophe telling him. “’e ‘as kept me sane all zese years, Gregory. Because of ‘im, I waz not alone when I died. ‘e kept the horrors at bay when I slept.”

Gregory had laughed, coldly. “Do you love him?”

He didn’t know why he asked it. They never talked about things like that.

But he remembered Christophe looking down at him, had seen a strange flicker in his eyes. He had turned his face away before he answered him.

“Non,” he said out loud, impassive, guarded once more. “’Ow can I love ‘im when I do not even know ‘im?”

Out of the two, Christophe had always been the one worse at lying.

Since that revelation, Gregory took his task of scoping out the boy a lot more seriously. Kyle Broflovski was quite a popular boy at school. He was a very smart kid, at least book-wise, and was expected to be the graduating class’s valedictorian. He was the captain of the debate team as well; Gregory had the chance to sit in on one of his debates and he saw for himself that the redhead was really good, impressive even, and Gregory was very hard to impress when it came to the spoken rhetoric. Furthermore, he was the basketball captain, which told Gregory that he kept both his body and his mind sharp. As Gregory observed him in his classes and during lunch, he had to admit to himself that the Broflovski boy was indeed gorgeous in his own way. He had a slightly crooked nose, inherited from his mother, but it sat well on his heart-shaped face. He had wild, red curls that looked soft to the touch and his eyes were always sharp, eager to learn, and would sometimes ignite with a fire that was entrancing.

Green eyes, Christophe had said. Gregory understood why he’d remember them above anything else.

Kyle was also single. He was the topic of many discussions among the grade (and others) about that sort of thing. He’d dated girls before but they’d never lasted, which made others speculate that he was gay—or at least bi. Gregory just thought that the kid didn’t have time for a significant other with all of his commitments, but after teasing him once and subtly flirting to test the waters, the reaction he received made him think otherwise. He kept that information to himself, however, when he reported back to Christophe his new findings of the boy. The brunette hadn’t wanted to enrol into the school with him because he hated interacting with people—he’d always been home-schooled, until he’d ran away—and he’d said that if he was put in there, he’d probably murder Cartman on sight. Two new students enrolling in the final year of high school would have been too suspicious anyway, so it was definitely best that the Frenchman stayed at home. Still, Gregory didn’t miss the jealous looks cast his way when he talked about his new ‘friend.’ Christophe wanted to see the boy as well, although his pride always stopped him from saying so out loud. Gregory let him fester, private payback for being forced into doing this in the first place. But if Christophe ever found out that he was flirting with the object of his affections, or if he became aware that the thought of his sexuality had crossed Gregory’s mind, Gregory was wary of an actual physical retaliation from the reckless mercenary. He wished to avoid being hit or threatened over something like that—just the thought of witnessing Christophe’s enraged protectiveness over this boy twisted his gut.

It wasn’t long until Gregory discovered Kyle’s more immoral talents as well. He heard it through a young man with Down Syndrome named Nathan; the boy was peculiarly smart but his eyes were cold, a sociopath hidden behind an innocent smile. Gregory was familiar with the type and apparently, Nathan was familiar with his type too. When he asked what gave him away, the other had answered, “It’s in your eyes. You look like a criminal.”

Children were supposed to be uncannily perceptive of people’s hidden characters. Perhaps it was true of those with mental disabilities as well.

So that prompted Gregory to discreetly ask about Kyle’s hacker skills from the other students, the results of which leaving him wanting since no one seemed to go beyond “Yeah, he’s really good with computers!” This particular skill set of Kyle’s was curious to him—caused an idea to plant into his head, but would only become fruitful if he was as good as he hoped and not just a rudimentary hacker of friends’ Facebook accounts. Unfortunately, he was unable to talk to the redhead’s closest friends, who he knew for sure would provide him satisfactory answers. Stanley hated him, residue resentment from their first encounter and growing even fiercer when he sat at Wendy’s table (although to his knowledge, they had long ago cleanly broken up; the noirette just seemed to like holding grudges). Cartman was also an immediate no-go; Gregory saw the way he looked at the Jew, recognised another sociopath in those dark eyes, and he thought it would be best if he didn’t give the fat teen any information on him at all. Kenneth would have been his best bet, but he was too close to Stanley, loyal to a fault. He gave no answers when asked; in fact, he actually looked at him with these strange, oddly perceptive, clear blue eyes, his face adopting one of protectiveness over the resident redhead. Gregory had felt a little chilled, seeing the usually airy expression turn to one of eerie observation; it made the boy look like he just _knew_ things, had seen the world, and he was suspicious of what he saw in Gregory.

Kyle surrounded himself with intimidating, powerful friends—no wonder it was so hard for people to approach him usually. Kyle himself, Gregory was soon to find out, was formidable on his own too. Those four boys were something else indeed.

His avenue to alone time with the redhead was through academic means. His friends seemed allergic to education (put in the most extreme terms) and often Gregory would find Kyle studying by himself, if not with Wendy or Token. Gregory easily slipped into the role of another one of his academic partners, although a notch above the others. He knew Kyle was interested, had him in his sights; he was like Gregory in the way that he found intelligence in others attractive and Gregory played on that as naturally as anything.

The test to determine the level of his hacking skills was beyond satisfactory, and it was then that Gregory saw with uncanny clarity how Kyle could be integrated into their lives. It was a scary idea and one that made him oddly bitter. He was aware of how important this Broflovski boy was to Christophe, even if the stubborn Frenchman wouldn’t ever admit it, and contrary to his attitude or behaviour or what he said, Gregory did value Christophe’s happiness. He didn’t deserve it but he had Gregory’s silent support, and looking at it in a purely logical sense—they did need a hacker on their team and here was one ripe for the picking.

So the plan was shared with the brunette and, despite Christophe’s initial outraged protest, they both knew that these were the only two alternatives: it was either he join or his father dies.

When boiled down to it, the choice was simple. They were actually offering him mercy, although that may depend on who you asked.

* * *

“Why do you have my father’s name here?” Kyle demanded, instantly furious, all defences up and his very posture _screaming_ protective hostility. He glared at the both of them, snatching up the folder into his hands and backing away with it, putting distance between him and his two newfound enemies. “You came back here to _kill my father?_ ”

“You have the folder,” Gregory said, watching him carefully. “Read it for yourself.”

Kyle glowered at them for a moment, suspicious, but then glanced down and opened up the case file again. His heart was beating like a rabbit in his chest, sweat beading his brow as he quickly read over the details. Yes. He wasn’t actually just seeing things. Someone had ordered a _hit_ on his _father_. His throat felt dry and he looked back up at them, conflicted. “Why?” he croaked out. “He’s just a lawyer, he’s never hurt anybody—”

“How well do you know your father, Kyle?” Gregory asked, interrupting him. “If you truly think that, then you don’t know him very well at all.”

Kyle clenched his teeth, fury rising. “ **Fuck you**!”

“Calm down,” Christophe suddenly snapped, narrowing his eyes at the fuming redhead. “We are not here to kill him.”

Kyle shook the folder at him. “Bullshit!” he shouted. “Then what the fuck is this!”

“What he _means_ —” the blonde started, rolling his eyes—“is that we don’t _have_ to kill him. Not if you join us.”

That didn’t make any sense to a near-hysterical Kyle. “What the fuck are you even saying! You know what, _go fuck yourselves_! You’re not getting anywhere _near_ my dad, you hear me? I’m going to fucking turn you both in and you’re going to rot in _jail_.” With his vision threatening to bleed red, he spun on his heel and began stomping towards the door. He almost jumped out of his shoes when a figure quickly passed him and slammed a hand against the door before he could even get to it. Shocked by the loud bang that reverberated through the whole room, Kyle stiffened and looked up at the looming brunette in front of him.

“You’re not going anywhere, Broflovski,” he growled.

Kyle glared darkly. “What the fuck are you doing,” he said coldly. “Get—out—of—my— _way_.” When Christophe didn’t move, he jutted up his chin, challenging. “Or are you going to _kill_ me too?”

Strangely enough, the Frenchman looked visibly affected by that taunt, however much he tried to hide it. His face turned impassive, lips pursed together tightly. They glared at each other in silence, neither moving a muscle in defiance, and Kyle’s patience was just on the verge of snapping when he heard his name being called out from behind him.

“Kyle.” It was Gregory’s voice, low and a soothing baritone. “Please. Be reasonable—”

“Says the guy who wants to _kill my father_ ,” Kyle spat, not daring to look away from the threat standing directly in front of him.

As it was, he missed the way Gregory’s hazel eyes flashed dangerously. “We didn’t need to tell you this,” he suddenly said, voice chilling enough that Kyle was scared of being stabbed in the back. The redhead stepped away from Christophe, turning his body so he had them both in his sights. Gregory watched him like a hawk. “We didn’t need to wait this long either. We could have killed your father within a _week_ of us coming here and you would have been _none the wiser_. If we had done it as we _should_ have, then by now you’d be sans a father with the funeral held _months_ ago, and you would have suspected _nothing_ of foul play; we’d be on our merry way out of this redneck town and onto another case and you, Kyle—your family would have been _ruined_ , because we have enough dirt on your father to sue you and your family for _millions_. That is an alternative life, Kyle, _without_ us showing mercy. So—” Gregory lavishly gestured with an open palm to the stool in front of him—“ _sit_.”

Gregory was slighter than Christophe, leaner and not as thick with muscles. But his voice, oh his _voice_ —it was a powerful thing despite its unassuming volume. Deep, firm, _strong_ in a way that he never needed to shout; there was hidden _venom_ there more potent than any black mamba, an intimidating strength in its sound that shook people so profoundly that, if he put his mind to it, he could probably make Satan shake in his boots. His gaze, cutting, cold, was a blade coloured in lemon grass. Gregory was quietly menacing, more terrifying than Christophe by leagues. Kyle was beginning to realise that now.

A dense silence befell them, the two mercenaries waiting for Kyle’s move. The Jew resisted the instinct to cower, keeping a defiant glare on his face. But, eventually, he began to approach the kitchen island again, slow as if he was approaching a wild animal. When he quietly took his seat on the stool and put the folder back on the bench, Gregory’s previously stony face broke into a light-hearted, pleased smile, a specious appearance of angelic innocence that the whole world was fooled by. Kyle spine tingled; Gregory was _scary_.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone back to normal, casual and polite. “Christophe?”

Kyle didn’t turn his head to watch as the brunette made his way back to them, standing on Kyle’s other side now, between him and the doorway. He didn’t want to take his eyes off Gregory.

“Now, perhaps there was a way I could have broached the topic without you lashing out as you did, but I didn’t know of it,” Gregory began, leaning against the counter on his elbows. It brought him closer to Kyle, which made the redhead stiffen. “Relax, Kyle. You’re in no danger from us.”

Kyle defiantly glared at him. “Stop lying, and maybe I’ll start listening to what you have to say,” he hissed.

Gregory smiled. “Okay.” He put the pads of his fingers on top of the folder, his fingers splayed out. “Here’s the deal, Broflovski. Your father has made some pretty powerful enemies who are willing to pay _a lot_ for him to die, but not only that—to _ruin_ his name. Perhaps punishing his innocent family members is a bit much, but Gerald does deserve what may be coming for him.” He lifted up a warning finger when Kyle opened his mouth to curse him. “Ah, no, none of that. Your father may be a stellar family man, but he is a conniving snake and has cost the lives of a number of innocents. He’s been bribed by corrupt parties to purposefully _lose_ cases, he’s defended and fudged evidence on the money of criminals, and he has the alias of a horrible troll on the internet that has caused multiple suicides. Your father, Kyle, is not a good man.”

Kyle’s eyes burned, not looking at him directly.

Gregory watched him, a curious eyebrow lifted. “Did you know?”

The other’s hands clenched on his lap, visible only to Christophe. Kyle said nothing.

The silence was more telling than anything else.

“… We remembered you,” Gregory continued, deciding to move on, laying his hand flat on the folder. “And so we took a chance and scoped you out—to return a favour.”

Kyle frowned, looking at him again. His insides were twisted with anger and confusion, his eyes stinging; but he didn’t allow himself to show weakness, not in front of Gregory. “What favour?” he asked, and his voice was rough. “What did I do to _earn_ it?” A hint of sarcasm bled into his tone, still defiant.

Gregory and Christophe exchanged a secretive glance that Kyle didn’t miss. He glanced at the brunette suspiciously. “You were an ally in Viva La Resistance,” the blonde answered smoothly.

Kyle only frowned deeper. “Viva La Resi—?”

His speech broke, his eyes widening suddenly.

Viva La Resistance. The small insurgent group they formed as children to stop the deaths of their childhood icons. He looked at Gregory anew—ah, yes, that was right. He’d been the one to detail their plan, had been the one to raise their spirits with that song—

Kyle looked at Christophe, feeling conflicted and frustrated. Where did Christophe fit in all of this?

The brunette’s tired face did not give him any answers.

How had that war ended, anyway?

“Yes, so,” Gregory continued, dragging him sharply back into the present, “it’s due to that sentiment that we gave pause on this case. Would you like to hear my proposal?”

Kyle dragged his gaze back onto the blonde and gave a curt nod, silent.

“A life for a life, Kyle,” Gregory summed up simply. “We spare your father, but that means you work with us to pay off the debt. Our clients were willing to pay fifty grand for his head and for all the evidence that we’ve built up against him, but going back on our contract will cost us— _you_ —far, far more.”

“So you’re blackmailing me,” Kyle said flatly, bitter and resentful.

“No, we are not,” Gregory said patiently. “For you see, Kyle, if _we_ don’t do the job, then other people will. Your father has had this coming for _years_ ; you’re lucky that we were the _first_ to be sent for him. If I were to tell our client that we chose not to do the job, they _will_ most likely send others—and more likely than not, they will seek out more blood. We’re offering you a means to _protect_ your family.” That earned him a wary, curious look from the redhead. “There are ways to protect your family from these attacks, to help erase your father’s past from getting into a person’s hands that would mean him harm, but it will cost you a _lot_ of money. It may even be something you’d need to invest in for the rest of his natural life.”

“What do you mean?” Kyle asked, gritting his teeth, his heart hammering in his chest.

“I have friends,” Gregory said simply. He glanced at Christophe. “We both do. And we have friends here in South Park, who can protect your father from potential hits. They can be paid to protect your family, and your mother, father, little brother would be none the wiser.”

The redhead stared glumly at the folder, his mind churning away at this new information. Then, slowly, he said, “This… client, you have now—the one who wants to kill dad.” He looked up. “When you tell them that you won’t do it, they’ll be mad, yeah?” His emerald eyes took on a dark quality. “Can we kill them?”

Gregory almost laughed, but Kyle was dead serious. Christophe shook his head.

So here was the danger that Gregory had sensed before—here was the darkness.

“Anyone can be killed,” the Brit answered, secretly amused and a little wary. “But you have to remember something if you plan to join us, Kyle—we are mercenaries _for hire_. We won’t help you with personal vendettas.”

Kyle’s brow creased. “Seriously?”

Gregory’s smile was humourless. “Seriously.” He let out a soft sigh, pulling back to stretch a little. “Our clients are anonymous, Kyle. Perhaps you’ll be able to track them, with your skills, but even so—someone who’d be willing to wire that much money for a hit? I doubt that they’re so easily touchable.”

The last word hung in the air, followed up by silence. Kyle tapped his fingers on the folder, weighted for such a small, little thing, just thinking. The mercenaries in his company let him do so, but he could feel their eyes watching him, piercing. He couldn’t think as clearly as he wanted to; it felt wrong. “Give me the offer,” Kyle suddenly said. “Give me my options. What are you telling me?”

Gregory held his gaze. “Your father dies—if not by our hands, then by another’s—or you join us as our hacker for an indefinite period of time until you pay off that fifty grand, and afterwards you are free to leave, but you leave our protection too—you and your family.”

“… I could kill you two instead,” Kyle said softly, seemingly musing aloud. “Or you can just walk away and I can protect my family on my own.”

“You could,” Gregory acquiesced. “In the very least, you can try. I wouldn’t like your chances, and before you trick yourself into thinking otherwise, _we_ aren’t simply going to walk away out of the goodness of our own hearts.” They locked gazes, hazel to emerald. “We’re mercenaries, Kyle,” he reminded the other. “We are going to get our payment—one way or the other.”

A beat, and then, “I remembered when you actually stood for something.”

That actually seemed to catch Gregory off-guard. His smile staggered, his eyes widening slightly. He caught himself soon enough, but he was still too slow—Kyle had seen the slip.

“Well,” he said quietly, a warning in his tone, his recovered smiling biting, “things change. Consider yourself lucky that we even _have_ a soft spot for you.”

“Can I think about it?” Kyle asked, dismissive of Gregory’s words. “Give you an answer another time?”

The two mercenaries exchanged glances. “Of course you can, Kyle,” the blonde answered. “But you are not allowed to leave this apartment.”

A scowl twisted itself on Kyle’s features, unhappy. “So I’m a hostage now too, apparently,” he spat, bitter.

“Don’t whine,” Gregory clipped, rolling his eyes. “But yes, basically. I will now ask that you forfeit your phone.”

The redhead glared at him, but it lacked its usual sharpness. He looked resigned. “Can I at least lie to my mother so that she doesn’t worry that I’ve been kidnapped?” he asked, dryly.

The way Gregory’s eyes minutely narrowed had Kyle wondering if his snark was going to be a problem; he resolved to be the snarkiest little shit as possible. “Yes,” the blonde returned, just as flatly. “Anyway, I’ll give you some space to think on it, however for obvious reasons you cannot be left alone. Christophe, watch him, will you? Make sure he’s settled in.”

“Where are you going?” the brunette asked; Kyle had almost forgotten the sound of his voice, he’d been quiet for so long.

“I’m getting us dinner,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, already heading towards the door. He flashed them a humourless smile. “I’m starved. Kyle, do you feel like anything in particular? You’re our guest, after all.”

Kyle responded with a middle finger in Gregory’s direction. The British man chuckled tiredly and left without another word.

They were left alone again, Kyle and Christophe. The redhead stubbornly kept his eyes on the folder, refusing to look at the other. He heard a sigh from beside him, heard him shifting through his pockets and then the click of a lighter. “We’re not your enemies, Broflovski,” Christophe’s rumbling voice spoke. He, too, sounded tired. “Even eef you do not believe it, I—we are on your side.”

Kyle wanted to believe him.

“Everything’s going to change, isn’t it,” he said quietly, eyes strained on the folder in front of him. This damned folder. It was lying so innocently on the surface, not knowing that it was ruining his life.

“Oui.”

“Am I really being kept hostage? Am I being blackmailed here?”

“Non,” and the heat in that denial made Kyle believe him just a little bit. “I do not care what Gregory says,” Christophe continued vehemently. “Even eef you do not join us—even eef you decide zat you would razza do zis on your own, I will not allow Gregory to ‘arm a single hair on your head.”

That surprised him. The Jew looked up, locking eyes with the other. He didn’t know it, but his emerald gaze was glistening and Christophe was transfixed. “And my dad’s?” he asked, just as quiet—nearly tentative in a way that he never usually was.

Christophe didn’t answer him immediately; he just regarded him silently and Kyle stared back. Finally, the brunette turned his head and released a breath of smoke away from the redhead’s direction. “I will not allow ‘im to be ‘armed either,” he said, weary but resolute. “’owever, you must accept zat Gregory speaks ze truth. Eef we do not intervene in some way—whether eet is to do the job ourselves or provide our protection—zen you are risking more zan just your fazza. Your ‘ole family may be targeted.” They locked eyes again. “Eef you decide zat you do not need our ‘elp, zen you must be absolutely certain zat you can protect zem on your own. Gregory did not lie. We could have killed your fazza months ago.”

Kyle took a deep breath, glanced away. His chest felt tight. He felt a little sick. “Why are you so nice to me?” he asked, a whisper.

The mercenary took a deep drag of his cigarette, released the smoke languidly into the empty apartment air.

His answer was simple.

“Because I died in your arms—”

Kyle looked at him.

“and you were ze one who held my hand.”

* * *

Kyle stayed over that night and the three of them wrote up his contract after they ate take-out noodles. They were on the couch, Gregory in the middle with his laptop on his lap and the other two watching what he typed. It was felt strange, this scene; it was much more homely than Kyle would’ve liked, the casualness of it creeping up on him. He supposed it was only natural—it was just another day in South Park, really. Kyle knew how to roll with the punches, but that didn’t mean that he had to be happy with his body’s state of premature acceptance.

“I don’t belong to either of you as some sort of employee or what the fuck ever,” Kyle stated bluntly. “We’re partners.”

“Of course,” Gregory said, nodding, typing out his conditions but in a more eloquent way.

“And I’m not obligated to stay with you for a set amount of time. I can leave whenever I want.”

“Until you pay back what you owe,” Gregory butted in, narrowing his eyes.

“Even then, I can still be away from you if I wanted,” Kyle said, crossing his arms stubbornly. “Under no circumstance am I _forced_ to be in the same area as you to work on our cases. Not unless it’s completely necessary.”

“Fine. But just so you know—if you try to escape and hide out somewhere, we _will_ hunt you down.”

“Like a bloodhound. I get it. Now fucking write it down.”

A sigh. “You do realise that in the event of a clause breach, neither of us would be liable to sue the other in an official court, us being well—mercenaries?”

“I know. This is for my own peace of mind. I like the security. In the very least, it’ll give me something righteous to yell at you for when I kick your ass.”

“You’re very bitter.”

“You _think_?”

Christophe watched their exchange closely, feeling a little left out. He wondered if this was how they bantered and bickered in school when he wasn’t there. Kyle may not be aware of it, nor Gregory, but there was a certain naturalness in their exchange, a familiarity with the way they swapped biting retorts. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

“I have access to all the financials and get copies of transactions and pay cuts.”

“We do that already, even though Christophe doesn’t bother to check his.”

Said Frenchman acknowledged his words with a grunt.

“Just making sure. I want to keep track of how much I owe you. Cuts to be split proportional to the amount of work each person puts into an individual case?”

“Naturally. Also, I’m sure this goes without saying, but you can’t reveal our true profession to _anyone_ , not even that best friend of yours. It must remain _secret_.”

“I am not fucking dumb, Gregory.”

“Wouldn’t want you on our team if you were, Kyle.”

It was pretty late in the night when Kyle was finally satisfied with the contract. They didn’t bother with the printing and a physical signing—Kyle simply signed it on the computer by typing out his name, and then forwarding the .pdf file to all their email accounts. Afterwards, they stayed up even later to watch Gregory write the _unfortunate_ email to their client about the withdrawal of their Broflovski contract.

“Have you ever done this before?” Kyle suddenly asked as he watched Gregory silently type the email.

It was Christophe who answered, blowing out smoke. “Non. Zis is ze first.” He glanced at the redhead with an unreadable expression. “Eet would ruin our good name eef we failed jobs, non?”

The answer was simple but in that one rhetoric question, Kyle had a sense of how much of a big deal this actually was for the two mercenaries. Gregory’s face remained stoic.

The email was short, simple, with a warning not to come after the Broflovskis as they were now under their protection.

“Every target is one bribe away from becoming a client,” Gregory said absently, punctuating the end of his email with a resolute period.

When the email was sent, Kyle relaxed his shoulders, some tension falling away from his body at last. He murmured, “I bribed you?” He couldn’t recall doing anything of the sort.

Twin sets of mercenary eyes landed on him.

“… Oui, Broflovski,” the brunette answered for them both. “You did.”

Kyle didn’t know whether he was flattered or insulted that they thought he was worth (only) more than fifty grand.

* * *

A thought occurred to him in the morning.

“Um, by the way… Who are the ‘friends’ you mentioned that you had in South Park? You know, the ones you said we can pay to protect my family?”

To his apprehension, Gregory tossed him a smirk as he prepared their breakfast. He casually swept a stray, blonde hair back into his neat curls (how he managed to have such nice-looking hair in the morning while Kyle’s was a wild mess he had no idea, and was honestly very resentful). “Do you know Loogie?” he asked lightly.

A slow blink. “… I thought he’d joined a sports team.” It was less of a statement as the words escaped his mouth and ended up more like a desperate plea.

“Didn’t last. He’s the mob boss of South Park’s underground criminal gang ring now; has been for _years_. You simply can’t escape that kind of raw talent.”

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Christophe, surprisingly up at this hour and smoking like it was the afternoon, blew a smoke ring into Kyle’s face, which wasn’t well-received at all and the redhead spluttered, glaring daggers into the bemused faces of the two mercenaries.

“It’s belated, but—” Gregory pushed a plate of French toast towards him, smiling. “Welcome to the family, Kyle.”

* * *

Things were definitely different after that night.

Kyle still had many, many questions and he wanted to be fully involved with Gregory’s preparations of the Broflovski Protection Program (Kyle had dubbed it thus in his head, although he never felt the need to share the name out loud with the blonde). This caused him to hang out with Gregory a lot more under the pretence of ‘studying’ or working on assignments together, which, oblivious to him, attracted much attention and earned them many whispers amongst the school, his peers, and surprisingly enough, his closest friends. It got to the point where he was even confronted by his super best one.

“Okay, what the fuck, Kyle?” Stan asked, running his hand through raven-coloured hair in agitation. “You’re blowing us off again? For _Gregory_?”

Stan’s hatred for the blonde was nearly legendary. Kyle honestly didn’t know who he hated more at this point: Gregory or Craig (or Token). “I’m sorry,” the redhead said, and his voice might have been more sincere if this wasn’t Stan’s a hundredth complaint. “I told you, dude. It’s important.”

“Aren’t _we_ important?” the noirette asked, his face adopting that pitiful look that Kyle was all too familiar with and usually very weak to (even though he cursed himself every time for falling for the trick and thus encouraging the irritating behaviour).

“Of course you are,” Kyle sighed, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Looking away helped. “But I’m sorry. I already told him I’d go. Maybe this weekend?”

Stan was all too ready to demand that Kyle blow him off (he usually did when he asked), but the finishing question caused his mouth to snap shut. The rejection stung and he glared sulkily at the redhead. “Whatever,” he muttered, slamming his locker closed. “Later.”

He stalked off and Kyle watched his back, wanting to say something, to reassure him—

But he stayed silent and forced his head away, not letting himself watch him leave.

Stan’ll have to get over it. Even though Gregory wasn’t exactly his _friend_ , he was his partner now. He’d just have to get used to Gregory’s presence in his life—God knew that he’d made many other allowances in his life all for the sake of sparing Stan’s feelings. He wouldn’t allow his best friend to make him feel guilty about protecting his family, not a chance.

It was tiring work, though, juggling his two lives. Forget not having time to spend with his friends anymore—he barely had time for _himself_. Between basketball practice, studying, debating, mercenary work, and the BPP, he was exhausted all the time. He even just brought his study books and scripts to Gregory and Christophe’s place, so he didn’t have to waste time doing the commute between there and his house to do his school work. He often took naps there, on their couch, when he figured he was allowed a couple of hours break. When he woke up and he was alone in the living room, he’d find himself with a blanket over him and a thermos of coffee on the table. He didn’t know which one of them was thoughtful enough to do that and to be honest, Kyle wanted to keep it a mystery until he found out for himself and caught them red-handed; he wanted to tease them upfront for being so sweet. Either of them would be hilarious, really.

No one was oblivious to his newfound perpetual state as a zombie, though. Stan expressed some passive-aggressive concern (“Hey, maybe you should take a break from _Gregory_ and rest up some?”) and Cartman even pulled him aside one afternoon. Well, more accurately he’d jumped on him while he was wandering aimlessly through the hallway in a sleepy-daze and dragged him bodily like a ragdoll into the boys’ bathroom. Kyle had been way too out of it to put up a fight, although alarm bells did ring faintly in his head because Cartman _dragging_ him _anywhere_ was usually not a good thing.

“Alright, Jew, tell it to me straight—are you in trouble?”

Kyle blinked owlishly. “… Huh?”

Eric pierced him with that familiar, dark gaze. “Heard you fucking fell asleep in _chemistry_ class—you live for that molecular crap. You do realise if you don’t get your shit together then they’ll probably mandate you to go home and get some fucking sleep? Is that your plan all along, Jew boy? A ploy to stay home and skip out on school while the rest of us _healthy_ shmucks roll our asses out of bed at seven in the morning?” he sneered.

Kyle was steadily growing more alert the longer Eric talked—the brunette just had that way with him, Kyle’s body reacting readily to the snide, accusing tone like it was a natural chemical reaction. “No, Cartman,” he sighed, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. “I’ve just been really busy, okay? Been getting less sleep than usual.”

“Busy with what,” Eric demanded, suspicion in his eyes. “It’s nowhere near finals.”

The redhead ran his hand through his hair in mild frustration. “I’m trying to get valedictorian,” he snapped. “ _Every_ assessment piece is like a final to me—”

“Bullshit! No way would it tire you out so much! Your nerdy ass is already a fucking shoe-in—”

“Wake up,” Kyle interrupted, snapping his fingers for effect. “That was _before_. Now there’s _Gregory_ , and he’s a smartass son of a bitch, alright? If I don’t keep on my toes, he’s going to snatch it from right under me and I fucking _hate_ the thought of that.” It was the truth, really, everything else aside.

The truth was what Eric saw in his eyes, but still he was suspicious. “Just like you to fucking risk your health over some shitty title,” Eric mumbled. But then he reached out and gripped Kyle’s elbow tightly, the redhead wincing at the sudden vice. “Now,” the brunette said lowly, “I don’t know if you’re telling the full truth or not, and I mostly don’t fucking care. What I _do_ give a shit about is _not_ seeing your pitiful face wandering around school like you’re already half-dead, you hear me? It’s fucking _nauseating_ and frankly boring as all hell, and I’m sick and tired of hearing people being so worried about you. You’re a fucking attention whore, you know that?”

Kyle opened his mouth to object vehemently but Eric continued on before he could. “Get your fucking act together, Kahl. And if there’s something more to this than you’re letting on—” his eyes darkened a notch—“like something to do with that pommy son of a bitch—if he’s causing you trouble in a way that’s outside of your fucking nerd battle, then tell me, alright?” He smiled, and it was all teeth and malicious intent. “I’ll use any fucking excuse to get rid of that asshole.”

Kyle narrowed his eyes and shrugged Eric’s hand off of him, the other letting go casually. “Even if that _was_ the case, I can fucking take care of myself, thank you,” he retorted. “But… thank you. For the concern.”

Eric scowled, a hint of pink colouring his cheeks. “It’s not fucking _concern_ , you gayward cuntrag.”

The redhead resisted the urge to pat the larger man’s arm; despite his tired state and his overall hostile feelings for the boy in front of him, there was a fondness in his chest. “Fuck you,” Kyle responded, because that was the appropriate thing to say. “You’re the one who dragged me into the boys’ toilets to give me a gallant speech—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, faggot!”

Again, Kyle resisted the urge to grin. They shared a glance, and the message was clearly received.

* * *

Outside of school and work, he usually talked to Christophe the most when he was home. He just got along with the Frenchman a lot easier than he did with Gregory—he was actually able to relax and enjoy his company without the nagging feeling that he was being tested with every sentence. And, he wasn’t going to deny it, there was something there between them—a spark, an attraction. Kyle would be lying if he said that he didn’t think of Christophe as special. Ever since that memory came back, of holding the guy in his arms as he died, Kyle had grown incredibly fond of him, invoking a sense of fierce protectiveness that Kyle rarely felt outside of his own family, and sometimes Stan.

One time, Christophe had been gone from the apartment for a whole two weeks on a mission, and Kyle had missed him dearly.

“Have you heard from him?” Kyle asked Gregory at the one-week mark. He was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, supposed to be doing homework. The blonde was with him too, sitting on the couch with his laptop. Usually, the Brit locked himself up in his room, doing God knew what, so it was rare that he spent time in the living room when Kyle was present—a good enough distraction from his studies. There were two steaming mugs of coffee in front of them on the table, a standard amongst Kyle’s flurry of notes and textbooks.

“He’s on a covert operation right now,” Gregory replied mildly, not looking away from whatever it was he was working on. “It’s imperative that he remains focused and minimally contacts the outside world.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Gregory’s lip quirked, but he still didn’t look away from the laptop screen. “Yes, I’ve heard from him. He’s fine.”

Kyle ignored the little prick of jealousy. He wondered how they kept in contact; he remembered that he’d never asked for Christophe’s phone number. They fell into a tense-less silence then, Kyle unable to concentrate on his work; the only sound now was the swift and graceful taps of a keyboard. He decided to take a break, resting his arms on top of his books and laying his head on top of them, turned so that he could nonchalantly watch the blonde mercenary. Either Gregory didn’t notice his blatant staring or he was studiously ignoring him. Kyle guessed the latter.

“You know…” Kyle started slowly, breaking the verbal silence, “I noticed something around here.”

“Oh?” the blonde acknowledged disinterestedly. The rhythm didn’t break, _clak-clak-clak-clak_. “What may that be?”

“Despite what you told me in the beginning, you actually have rules, don’t you?”

Hands stilled, merciful silence. At last, the other glanced at him. “I have many rules,” Gregory said slowly. “I’m afraid you may have to be more specific.”

The look in his eyes told Kyle that he knew exactly what he was talking about. He maintained his languid state, green eyes watching him in that offhand, knowing manner. He wondered if Gregory was uncomfortable being on the opposite side of that gaze, but if he did, there was no sign of it. He had the best poker face. “I know I’ve only been working with you guys for a short while—I’ve only done a total of three cases, not including the first one you hired me for. And all of them so far have been to hack into corrupt parties. Now, I know it’s a small sample size, but I’ve come up with two hypotheses: either you only give me cases I will actually do or you actually screen your cases to accept only those that align with your own sense of justice.”

Gregory’s face gave nothing away. “Well,” he started, tone light, “you’re correct that I only give you cases you’re most likely to accept.” He shrugged. “Every case is on a need-to-know basis. If one doesn’t require your particular skillset, then you won’t know of it. You’re right in saying that the jobs you’ve done so far are a small sample size.”

“See, I know that,” Kyle said eagerly, lifting up his head. “That’s why I don’t know what the hell Christophe’s doing right now or where he is. But I have another piece of information that tells me that you might actually not be the heartless prick you try to make yourself out to be.”

Gregory was curious despite himself. “Oh?”

Kyle’s eyes appraised him, and it wasn’t a bad thing. “You never had Christophe kill someone innocent.”

A beat.

“We talk a lot, when you’ve shut yourself up in your room,” he said idly. “I’ve asked a lot of questions about you, because the only Gregory I _really_ know is the one at school—and I’m still having trouble aligning the one I remember from years ago to the you right now. Christophe’s oddly tight-lipped though, about you. He hasn’t told me much. But he has told me that he trusts you.”

Gregory felt something in him twist—it was a conflicted set of two very different emotions. On one hand, he felt warmed at the confirmation that Christophe trusted him; on the other, he was bitter that he _never_ heard those words from the man himself (even though he already knew to a degree) and had to hear it from their new fledgling mercenary. He tried not to let how close they were getting bother him.  “Does he now,” he ended up saying eventually, not quite sure how to respond to that, feeling as if he’d been caught off-guard.

Kyle nodded. “He doesn’t like talking much about past cases either, and I understand that. But he let me know that one thing. So, it got me thinking—with what he told me and what I’ve seen so far, you’re…” He searched for the words, his brow furrowing. “You’re this strange mix of good and bad,” he decided on, simply. “Like, you know—” the redhead snorted—“a vigilante who takes justice into his own hands, kind of deal. A liberalist—a freedom fighter, a Robin Hood, whatever.”

Gregory was actually at quite a loss on how to respond to Kyle’s words. He just stared at him, feeling strangely uncomfortable, his chest aching.

Those green eyes were piercing.

“You’re not that different from the Gregory I remember, if I think of it that way,” he continued quietly. “You’re still fighting for what’s right, albeit in some messed up, criminal way.”

At last, Gregory tore his eyes away. He looked unseeingly into his laptop screen. “… You’re living in a fantasy world, Kyle,” he said, tone chilling. “No matter how you sugar-coat it, a mercenary is a mercenary. When it comes down to it, whatever morals or ethical codes we have can be forgotten for the right price. You would be foolish to have so much faith in me.”

Gregory wasn’t looking at him so he avoided the full effect of Kyle’s suddenly saddened eyes.

Softly, he asked, “Gregory… What happened to you?”

The silence was so dense that you could cut it with a knife.

The British man closed his laptop, a resounding _click_ echoing in the sparse apartment. He looked at Kyle then, and his eyes were cold. “If you _really_ think I’m so self-righteous,” he began, and the tone of his voice made Kyle stiffen, made his eyes narrow in sudden caution, “then Kyle, tell me this—” His hazel eyes were cruel, the smile more like a show of teeth. “do you agree that your _father_ would have been getting what he deserved too?”

Kyle tensed considerably.

“What does that say about _you_ —the boy who turned mercenary so that his father could escape the justice he so dearly needs to pay for?”

Kyle furiously packed up his books into his bag, standing up. “Fuck you, Gregory,” he spat, voice equally as icy. Without another exchange, he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door in his wake.

Gregory closed his eyes and sighed, falling back to slouch on the couch, the loneliness of the apartment a tomb.

Kyle didn’t return to the apartment until Christophe came back. They pretended the conversation never happened.

* * *

Other than schoolwork and mercenary work, there really wasn’t much of anything to do in their apartment. There was no television, as the two were able to access the shows they wanted to see from illegal streaming sites and the news was readily available to them too with less chance of them being misled by sensationalist stories. Kyle wasn’t aware of it, but before he came along, their living room was hardly used at all; it had just been empty, excess space, and they’d spend most of their times holed up in their rooms doing individual work or minding their own business. When he started coming over, the living room seemed to be his own.

Kyle introduced to them movie nights, where they all came to the couch to watch a streamed movie on his laptop; it was always accompanied by a quipped suggestion that they should buy a television, to which Gregory always replied with “With _your_ salary?” Kyle always shut up after that, but that didn’t stop him from griping the next time. It was routine, really.

They’d shut off the lights in their apartment and Kyle would demand blankets, snacks, and drinks to be prepared on the couch and on the table. Sometimes, he even made them nachos, to which Gregory turned his nose at but would eventually end up eating anyway. It was a lot of fun, really—depending on the movie, they’d either sit there with Kyle in the middle rapt and silent, or they’d freely tear it apart with malicious abandon, with all of them pointing out plot holes and character stupidity. Their favourite movies to rip on like this were spy ones, although they all agreed that the Bourne Trilogy was pretty good. At one point, when Kyle suggested that they watch Kill Bill, Christophe had spoken up with a sneer and said, “Why do we have to watch all zis American sheet all ze time? I recommend we watch La Haine.”

“You _liked_ The Untouchables though,” Kyle muttered, but relented. He was actually really happy that the Frenchman had actively suggested something—he didn’t know why, but it felt like progress. After they’d watched Christophe’s French movie, Gregory suggested they watched The Kingsman, and suddenly they had a rotation of who picked the movie they’d watch every time they had a movie night.

It was domestic, it was homely, it was simple and mediocre—it made Kyle relax with them in a way that made him think that yeah, yeah, maybe this could work. There was a lot you can tell about a person by their movie conversations, after all. He didn’t know that the other two were thinking things of the same line.

Kyle wondered if he could eventually rope them into computer gaming. He had this funny imagery of Christophe raging at his computer and accidentally smashing the keyboard with how intense he was playing, and that greatly, greatly amused him. But then again, the brunette also had a rather steady hand and a cool countenance when he was put in front of a mission—so who knew how he really was at video games?

They’d just finished watching Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy when Gregory prematurely left them, saying that he needed to do more work. He politely thanked Kyle for the movie, as he always did, and retreated to his room. It wasn’t an unusual circumstance, Gregory only staying for the first movie—he was more of a workaholic than Kyle, which was saying something. Kyle and Christophe were left alone, a circumstance that also wasn’t unusual but never failed to make Kyle’s heart speed up with butterfly-induced nerves in his stomach. As they continued on with their movies, Christophe had gradually moved to sit closer and closer to him; they usually had the laptop on the desk when the three of them watched together, but when Gregory left, Christophe suggested casually that he wanted it to be closer and so Kyle put the laptop on his lap. This caused the following movie-watching to be more intimate, Christophe pressed so close to his side that he would always be aware of the heat he radiated.

Even if Gregory was there, sometimes Christophe would touch him. Just an arm over the couch and his fingertips idly resting on his shoulder, a press of his knee to Kyle’s, little things that made Kyle’s heart simultaneously gallop and stall, his body feeling warm all over. The setting was perfect, really, for that kind of thing—the darkness made them bold.

Christophe was currently playing with a red lock of Kyle’s hair as the Jew pressed himself close to his side, sharing the blanket over their legs. Kyle wasn’t really able to pay much attention to the movie, his head buzzing with how nice it felt to have his own personal heater, to have the fingers in his hair. This was the closest they’d ever gotten and Kyle’s heart was hammering, wondering if this would be the right time.

He just really wanted to kiss him.

“’Tophe?” he murmured, a nickname he’d given the brunette a few weeks ago. Christophe had looked at him strangely at first, to which Kyle had answered with a cheeky grin, and then there was a roll of eyes that the redhead took as acceptance and had been calling him ever since. It was a silent victory for Kyle. Gregory knew Christophe for longer, yes—but he was the one who called him ‘Tophe.

The brunette glanced at him and hummed in acknowledgement, relaxed and content as they slouched there on the couch.

Kyle turned his head to look up at him and Christophe, catching the movement, looked down.

The redhead bridged the gap between them, leaning forward to kiss him.

Christophe stiffened against him and for a moment, Kyle had a flash of panic that he’d just done something incredibly, outrageously _stupid_ —but before he could pull back, the Frenchman was responding with a fervour that caught him by surprise, surging forward to return the kiss and threatening to make him tumble backwards. The sudden movement caused his legs to instinctively shift to try and keep balance, making his laptop crash to the floor. Kyle tore away from the kiss with a gasp, his eyes immediately narrowed with concern, “Dude!”

After a quick check of his laptop and thankfully finding it undamaged, Christophe set it on the table next to their chips; with that task complete, he immediately took off where they left off, grabbing Kyle’s face in his rough hands and attacking him.

The Frenchman’s lips were thin and chapped, mostly dry, and his breath was a mix of tobacco and artificial cheese. Kyle didn’t mind at all and he hungrily returned as good as he got, smiling happily and not caring if Christophe felt it against his lips. He let out an involuntarily squeak when the stronger of the two suddenly shifted them and Kyle found himself on his back, Christophe looming and straddling over him. He felt like his face was burning, the blush fierce on his skin, and he released a small moan against the other’s lips that he must have liked because Christophe was suddenly kissing him even more deeply, tugging at his red curls with rough hands as he attempted to consume him. Kyle returned the favour by running his own hands through the brunette’s messy hair, gripping and scratching lightly at his scalp. The Frenchman groaned into his mouth, encouraging, and Kyle was unable to stop the laugh that bubbled out of him. Christophe finally pulled back with a chuckle of his own and Kyle could barely see him in the dark, the apartment only illuminated by his laptop screen; his face was heavily shadowed, his eyes dark, but Kyle had never felt safer beneath him.

Kyle grinned at the other, wrapped his arms around his neck, and pulled him down. Christophe followed his silent demand easily and they kissed again, slower this time, more languid, their tongues lazily finding each other and exploring deeply. Kyle was sure that his blush reached his ears and he was soon to realise that Christophe was a lot more experienced in the kissing business than him, leaving him panting and moaning, delighted with the lazy bites to his bottom lip. When Christophe pulled back for air, they were both slightly breathless, their breaths warm and mixing. He bent forward and buried his face into the crook of Kyle’s neck, inhaling him, shuddering. Beneath his palms, Kyle felt him slightly trembling.

“’Tophe?” he murmured, his lips kiss-swollen.

“You ‘ave no idea ‘ow much I’ve wanted to do zat, mon cher,” came his rough voice against his skin. Kyle shivered, his body tingling at the sound. There was a kiss on his neck, a small bite that tickled slightly.

“Then why didn’t you,” Kyle teased, moving to sit up. Christophe allowed him, pulling back as well so that they were sitting up, thighs pressed together.

Christophe’s hand was in his hair again, the both of them leaning forward so that their heads were close, as if they were about to share a whispered secret. “You are a lot braver zan I am, apparently,” the Frenchman humoured. He watched Kyle with dark eyes, the light from his laptop with the still on-going movie making colours dance across his reddened face. He bridged the gap between them again, catching Kyle’s lips between his teeth, and they kissed again, hands in hair, moving to hips, sliding underneath shirts, just touching, unable to get enough of the other.

“Is this allowed?” Kyle breathed, Christophe’s mouth sucking at his neck. He squeezed the other’s shoulders warningly. “No hickies,” he warned.

Christophe chuckled, nuzzled him instead. It was slightly scratchy and Kyle didn’t know whether or not he should tell Christophe to shave. He kind of liked the roughness. “What eez allowed, Kyle?”

“This.” The brunette pulled him closer so that he was half on his lap, his legs over his thighs. “Are we allowed to do this.” Kyle exemplified his point by tugging Christophe’s head back gently by his hair and kissing him full on the lips, pulling back before the other could pry his mouth open with his tongue.

“Oui,” Christophe breathed, a low, guttural sound that excited him.

But the easy admittance caused a nagging thought to enter Kyle’s mind. He looked at the other, his gut churning. He’d always suspected, but…

“Did you do this kind of thing with Gregory?”

It was a whisper, quiet, fragile.

Christophe stilled in front of him, a telling sign than anything. But to his credit, the brunette did not lie. “Oui,” he said again, a little more carefully, the smile no longer on his face. He absently stroked Kyle’s curls.

Kyle resisted the urge to shift, forcing himself to remain still. He took a silent breath, ignoring the sudden tightening in his chest. “Do you love him?” he suddenly blurted, and instantly regretted it. He never wanted to know that.

Christophe’s hand drew away from his hair. “Non,” the Frenchman replied, and in the darkness Kyle didn’t know whether or not he was lying. “Eef I loved ‘im, Kyle, zen why would I be kissing you?” he added, chuckling darkly.

But still, Kyle couldn’t shake of the unease in his gut. A beat, and then he asked just as quietly, “Does he love _you_?”

The brunette finally moved away from him, gently removing Kyle’s legs from his lap so that he could dig into his pockets. He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth. Kyle felt sharp rejection pierce him and he pulled his legs to him, hurt. But Christophe didn’t light it up. “Non,” Christophe answered roughly, leaning his head back on the couch, looking blindly up at the ceiling. “I am not sure eef ‘e knows ‘ow to love.”

Kyle wondered if that was actually true.

They sat there in silence for a while, Kyle not knowing what to do with himself now and feeling awkward. He didn’t know what they were. Christophe just sat there, silent, but he didn’t move to light up his cigarette, which would have been a certain sign that there would be no more kissing between them. Eventually, he turned his head to stare curiously at the redhead and seeing him just sitting there, he reached out and tugged at his shirt. “C’mere,” he muttered between his unlit stick.

Green eyes narrowed with suspicion, Kyle cautiously moved towards him, but Christophe only wrapped his arm around his shoulders and pulled him close impatiently. Eventually, Kyle allowed his head to rest on the other’s shoulder, still not saying a word.

There was a moment of stillness where they just stared at nothing and then Christophe sighed. With his other hand, he took out his cigarette and flicked it away. “Do not zink so much, Kyle,” he said, tapping the redhead’s chin upwards. He offered him a crooked smile. “We live in ze moment. Oui?”

Christophe bent down and pressed their mouths together, rough, chapped lips to his. Kyle closed his eyes.

“Okay.”

* * *

Kyle felt like he was stepping on something fragile.

They never verbally announced it to Gregory, but the blonde knew what was happening. It was impossible to miss the memo when Christophe kissed him in greeting the next morning while Gregory was making them breakfast. Kyle was instantly uncomfortable with that public display and he glanced at the third party, feeling tense. Gregory had paused in his making of an omelette, his eyes unreadable as he stared at Christophe, and when hazel locked with emerald Kyle felt like he might throw up. He didn’t know why—Gregory’s face was oddly blank. But it only lasted a few seconds before Gregory was smiling again, and more than anything else Kyle knew it was fake. He didn’t comment on it and resumed his cooking.

When Kyle glanced at the brunette, Christophe was watching Gregory too, his eyes equally as unreadable. It didn’t help the churning in his gut at all.

He was incredibly happy with Christophe. He liked him— _a lot_. The Frenchman was rough and eccentric and had a terribly foul mouth, but Kyle adored all of that. He was easy to talk with and he was funny—the brunette had a surprising fondness for puns, which Kyle could never get used to, because when Christophe delivered them it was always with an eternal poker face. When he smiled, it was always slightly crooked, but if he was really happy his eyes would crease and the dark brown of his irises would gleam. He was sharp, clever, and so down-to-earth (not surprisingly) that Kyle always just felt grounded when he was with him, felt this comfortable calmness, if you didn’t count the butterflies in his stomach spurred by the sound of his voice. Kyle never needed protecting—he could take care of himself—but nevertheless, Christophe made him feel safe—warm. Despite his roughness, his awkward shows of semi-tender affection and sometimes nonsensical, French mutterings, he was honest, raw. Kyle loved it—it made him feel special, treasured. He adored the way Christophe would look at him when they were alone, tangled in sheets, as if Kyle was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He was still difficult though, with his own share of faults. One of which was that he could take showers more often, or at least wash his hands more—there seemed to be perpetual dirt under his nails and that bothered the clean freak redhead. That never stopped Kyle from wanting to hold his hands, though, although Christophe thought that was queer and only let him do it when they were in bed. Kyle was patient. It worked.

He refrained, however, from public displays of affection, always hated it—and considering that they were only ever in the company of one particular person in general, that meant that Kyle hated being affectionate in front of Gregory, perhaps even more so because it was _Gregory_.

He didn’t know why, but it felt like he would be rubbing it in his face. He had a stern talk with Christophe that he didn’t like it when he kissed him in front of the blonde, to which the brunette had been oddly aloof and dismissive. He truly seemed to believe that Gregory didn’t care, and it was then that Kyle realised that his partner (boyfriend?) was actually rather dense.

Because it was clearer to Kyle than ever before that he was intruding on something more than just a partnership between mercenaries. There was something between the two, a history, that was thick and dense and unspoken, and Kyle was both apprehensive of it and curious. Whenever he asked the Frenchman about it, he would receive vague, seemingly disinterested answers, until Christophe actually got irritated with his questions. Kyle could ask Gregory, but that thought intimidated him greatly.

So he kept silent for now, simply observed them.

Above all else, he realised he just didn’t want to hurt Gregory. Despite the tensions between them, he considered the blonde his friend. Gregory made them delicious breakfast every time Kyle stayed over without fail; how could you keep resenting a guy who did that for you? He took care of them, made sure they were safe in missions, looked out for them and had their best interests at heart, even if he never said it. Kyle respected him, a lot, and if you got over his pompous attitude and holier-than-thou glances, he was actually a really cool guy—actually secretly sweet. Kyle realised that it was _Gregory_ who had been covering him with a blanket and giving him coffee when he passed out on their couch; contrary to what he’d planned to do, Kyle continued to pretend to be asleep and never let on that he knew. The blonde never really did that anymore because Christophe was always around him now, even when he took naps. When the brunette was gone for a few days and Kyle was visiting, he was scared to even nap just in case Gregory _wouldn’t_ put that blanket on him, wouldn’t prepare that familiar thermos of coffee. The thought of losing that was oddly painful.

He felt like he was dancing around Gregory whenever something had to do with Christophe, and he was uneasy with that. He wondered if the blonde sensed his turmoil; if he did, he let Kyle stew in it without mercy and honestly, the Jew couldn’t even resent him for it.

He felt like a homewrecker, which was ridiculous—because there hadn’t been anything between them.

He couldn’t even lie to himself.

Christophe and Gregory were like bread and butter—since the beginning, it had always been those two, two peas in a pod, a duo, partners in crime, thick as brothers and apparently had been something more. Even Kyle, no matter his own bitterness and insecurities and his desire to keep Christophe all to himself, could never imagine them apart.

It was simply unnatural.

* * *

“Gregory, do you hate me?” Kyle asked one day, unable to keep it in any longer.

The blonde looked up from his newspaper, glancing at him. Kyle couldn’t read his eyes.

“No, Kyle, I don’t,” he said, and the redhead wondered if it was only his own wishful thinking that he thought he was being sincere. “Do you hate me?” Gregory returned, his voice light and a teasing quirk on his lips.

The other released a breath. “No. I don’t.”

Gregory’s expression remained unchanging; Kyle wondered if he imagined that flicker of emotion in his hazel eyes. The other looked back at his paper.

“Good.”

Still, Kyle felt hollow.

* * *

Gregory wasn’t a jealous person. He had too much confidence in himself, too much pride, to really acknowledge such an emotion. He wasn’t envious of the loving families he knew existed if he only looked; he didn’t covet the humdrum life of the ‘ordinary’ students his age, worrying about college and what they were to be in the future; he didn’t want for excess money, didn’t desire a huge mansion to hoard all of his material wealth; he thought he didn’t need love.

It was a nice thing to have, he knew. It was romantic, a fantasy, a dream of those who are young in the soul. He didn’t discourage love, not at all—he fought for the freedom for people _to_ love, to live in that world of light where such a thing could exist. He just… never thought that Christophe had been wanting it, however secretly, however unknowingly.

A part of him had believed that the brunette was like him in the sense that the battle would always be greater than such an indulgent sentiment. They were cynical souls—that kind of thing was not for them, never had been.

But as he watched them discreetly, how they danced around each other and were unable to hide the softness of their gazes, Gregory had never felt so wrong.

He didn’t know if it was _love_ , exactly, but it was the closest thing to it that Gregory had ever seen in the hardened mercenary. Between them was a strange intimacy, a closeness that Gregory had never thought was possible for the distant Christophe. They never acted excessively sweet with each other, never touched more than necessary, and Gregory had a suspicion that that was the Jew’s doing because he knew Christophe would never be so discreet. He doubted that they would be that kind of two people who _would_ be sickeningly public anyway, but Gregory would never forget that casual kiss the brunette had gifted the shorter one that faithful morning. And yet, they didn’t even have to kiss to make Gregory feel uncomfortable in their presence; they never had to touch each other for him to see that spark. It was in the air between them, the shared glances, their relaxed postures and their easy expressions, the hidden warmth in their eyes. It made Gregory feel ill.

Of course it would be the Frenchman who was naturally drawn to romance.

(Or maybe he just craved the sweet, sincere affection that he'd lacked all his life.)

Gregory wondered if the tightness in his chest and the churning in his gut at the sight of them was jealousy.

He had guarded himself for so long that even the idea of such a thing was slightly nauseating. How was he even to compete with Kyle, or challenge what they had? They had a bond knotted tightly with the experience of a shared death. Gregory liked to believe that he shared a similar bond with Christophe, as they’d both brought each other from the brink of death more than once, but perhaps it wasn’t the same as actually dying in one’s company.

The thought made him bitter.

Part of him snidely thought that the act of actually _saving_ the other rather than letting them die was far more substantial.

He immediately regretted the thought, shaking his head. That was childish and superficial. Whatever initial attraction they had with each other, it never would have grown to this extent if that was all there was between them. He knew that.

But Gregory was smarting and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

Why was it that, even though Kyle was the new one, _he_ was the one who was feeling like the outsider?

“Gregory?” Kyle asked, noticing his stare. “Are you okay?”

They were sitting on the couch, Kyle as always in the middle while Christophe was temporarily away in the bathroom. Gregory didn’t look away from him, nor did he verbally acknowledge his words. He could admit to himself, as he stared into the pools of emerald-green, that he could see why Christophe was so fond of this boy. Gregory already knew that he was attractive; you’d have to be blind to at least not acknowledge it. But now that they’ve spent so much time together, there was just something… addicting about Kyle. He was a spitfire, stubborn to a fault, and being around him made you want to stay on your toes. And yet—

He was kind. There was warmth in his gaze, his eyes piercing and honest in its concern. Gregory had more than once been caught off guard by what he’d said or what’d asked of him. He was perceptive and curious in a way that Gregory was threatened by, because if Kyle really put his mind to it, he could probably unearth Gregory’s deepest secrets. At times, he kind of wished he _could_ tell him. He wanted to trust him with a part of himself, as absurd as that sounded, because for some reason he thought Kyle would be careful with it—that he would understand, or at least try to. But he wouldn’t pity him, wouldn’t treat him with excessive gentleness. He’d handle him just as how he needed to be, would bite back a scathing retort in response to one of Gregory’s, an endless dance of banter and merciless cuts that would tell Gregory it was okay, it was okay to show weakness and have it change nothing, just like he wanted.

He wondered what it would be like, if _he_ was the recipient of that adoring gaze instead of Christophe. He wondered if he’d feel what Christophe felt—he wondered if he’d be addicted too.

And honestly, he was curious to see what Christophe would do if he stole away his angel.

“Greg—”

The blonde reached out, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

It was innocent, boring even. Just a press of his lips against the other’s. Beneath his hands, Kyle stiffened, shocked, and despite their proximities their eyes remained locked with each other’s, unblinking, not daring to close for even a moment. Gregory didn’t feel the earth shatter beneath his feet, didn’t feel the stars align; all he was aware of was a halted breath, of a slowness of time, of adrenaline shooting through his veins and making his heart bit just a little harder, just a tad quicker, as if he was beginning a dance with death.

It was curious how Kyle didn’t move away.

There was suddenly a hand on the back of his shirt, and that was what tore him away from the redhead finally. He was thrown aggressively across the room, landing on his ass mercilessly. “ ** _Connard_**!” the Frenchman roared at him, his face twisted in an ugly expression, murderous and hateful. Gregory was stunned, looking up at the brunette with wide eyes. “ _C’est des conneries_!”

Kyle scrambled up from his seat on the couch, his face pale. “Christophe—”

“Ta gueule!” he snapped, aggressively throwing off the hands that tried to grab at him. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Gregory,” he snarled, throwing himself at the blonde and sending him a flurry of relentless punches, each hit of his fist a cracking echo in the room. “Nique ta mere! You cocksucker! You fucking traitor! _I_ _fucking **hate** you—_ ”

Gregory instinctively tried to block the punches, attempting to struggle free from underneath the raging Frenchman, but Christophe was out for blood, his resistance only seeming to enrage him further. Gregory felt blood drip from his nose, from the cut on his lip, and he kicked out, a little terrified, feeling a hit that threatened to dislocate his jaw. Kyle grabbed at Christophe’s shoulders, attempting to pull him off of him, screaming, “Christophe! Knock it off! You’re going to fucking kill him—”

“Je m’en fou!” the brunette snapped, his vision red. He threw his arms out, striking Kyle, the force of which forced the stunned redhead backwards and stumbling over the coffee table. The crash caused Christophe to momentarily find himself, glancing back in concern, and Gregory took that opportunity to swiftly twist their legs until the Frenchman lost balance and Gregory was able to shove him off. Brought back to his anger, Christophe stood up and grabbed the front of Gregory’s shirt, baring his teeth at the blonde like a vicious dog as he pulled him close; he pulled his free hand back, intending to knock his perfect teeth out.

His arm was grabbed, though, with surprising strength, enough that Christophe had to struggle to actually make the punch and it ended up easily caught by the blonde. “Christophe, fucking stop it!” Kyle screamed directly into the other’s ear, making him cringe. Kyle attempted to reach over and grab the brunette’s face, but Christophe recoiled from the touch as if it burned, letting go of Gregory in the process. He backed away suddenly, dark brown eyes furious as he glanced between them.

“Why ze fuck are you _defending_ this fils de pute?” Christophe growled, his body shaking with suppressed rage.

Kyle stood between them, putting a hand on the other’s chest, but Christophe just took another step back. The rejection was stinging. “Christophe—”

“Why ze fuck didn’t you _pull away_?” the brunette screamed, and in his hateful eyes there was pain. Betrayal. “Did you fucking _enjoy_ it?” He didn’t even wait for Kyle’s response; in his mind, they were already branded as traitors. “You’re a fucking _slut_ , Broflovski,” he growled, falling back to hostility, because it was much easier to deal with than the hurt. “You fucking—”

“Take that fucking back, bastard!” Kyle seethed at him, green eyes narrowed furiously. “I didn’t—”

“ _Shut ze fuck up_! You standing zere wiz ‘im is fucking proof enough—”

“Don’t be a fucking _idiot—_ ”

“You’re a cheating, Judas, backstabbing _beetch—_ ”

“Just fucking _listen_ to me, please—”

“Non!” Christophe snapped. “Va te faire foutre, Broflovski. Fuck you.” Unkind, furious eyes glanced behind the redhead to lock with hazel. “Fuck you,” he said again, quieter, but somehow more effective than anything else he’d ever said.

“ _Christophe—_ ”

But the Frenchman was already walking away, grabbing his cigarettes from the floor as the table had been upturned, and was marching towards the door. Kyle chased after him, grabbed at his arm, but the other shrugged him off viciously. He turned sharply and the look in his eyes made Kyle freeze on the spot. “I will fucking ‘it you eef you touch me again,” Christophe said, voice dark, so, so cold. He’d never used such a tone on Kyle before. He spun on his heel and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door hard enough behind him that it threatened to break the hinges.

Kyle stared dumbly at it for a moment before he found himself again and said to no one, “Fucking _wait—_ ” and followed after the fuming brunette, fearless, stupid, probably in love.

Gregory was left alone in the suddenly silent apartment. Blood dripped from his face and he touched at his nose gingerly, wincing at the sting. He didn’t move for a moment, just trying to process what had happened.

Maybe he had been jealous, he thought numbly.

Didn’t people do senseless, disastrous, monstrous things when they were?

* * *

They didn’t come back until late that night. His clock read 3:04AM, and Gregory only knew because he couldn’t sleep and he heard someone stumbling into the room across the hallway and slamming their door closed. He recognised those heavy steps to be Christophe’s, but there was an absence of another set of feet that he’d grown accustomed to hearing. He wondered if Kyle was sleeping on the couch then, or whether he’d just gone home. Considering that Christophe was back in the apartment in the first place so soon, Gregory assumed that Kyle was just on the couch, a guard dog.

Staring up at his darkened ceiling, he wondered if he ruined them.

* * *

He didn’t ruin them, but there was tangible tension there. Christophe refused to speak to Gregory unless absolutely necessary, and was attempting to be indifferent to Kyle. There was always a glare in his eyes, a simmering anger in his tone, his face a perpetual scowl. Gregory didn’t know what they talked about that night, but for some reason he sensed that the toxic hostility reserved in Christophe’s eyes was more than he what knew. It was searching as well; he sensed that Christophe was watching him, assessing him, frowning and displeased with what he saw. When he tried to catch the other’s eye, he’d just turn away, looking pissed off and uneasy. Gregory didn’t know what was going on.

Kyle rubbed at his face wearily, looking exhausted and tired and a little irritated, although who that emotion was directed at Gregory had no idea. Maybe all of them. “I kind of suggested a threesome,” he muttered.

If Gregory had a mug in his hand, he would have dropped it. Since he was sans a mug, he simply put his hands on the kitchen island, using it for support. He stared wide-eyed at the redhead sitting on the stool opposite him.

“What.”

“Yup.” Kyle buried his face in his hands with a long-suffering groan of self-hatred. “Why the fuck did I say that,” he whispered, seemingly to himself. “Fucking _idiot_.”

Gregory glanced at the hallway, imagining Christophe lying on his bed, entertaining the idea of a _threesome_ —

If _Gregory_ was barely processing the concept, he had no hope of wondering what Christophe was thinking. He looked at the redhead before him, not knowing where to _start_ with the implications of Kyle suggesting such a thing. He could have said any number of things: agreed with him about his stupidity, asked how Christophe had first reacted to the suggestion, _how_ had he even broached the idea when they were on the verge of falling apart, did Kyle actually _want_ to kiss him, was he actually _crazy_ —

But all that came out of Gregory’s mouth was:

“Why?”

Kyle took a deep breath, shrugging helplessly. He didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

One day, they received news that someone had been asking about the Broflovskis in the underground. Gregory and Christophe put aside their cold war to dedicate their efforts instead to finding out who exactly was asking questions, while Kyle was advised to stay at home. Things were still weird between them, unhinged, but they were professionals and their personal crises were put on the backburner. Their warnings were for naught however as the Broflovski residence was invaded a day later. The parents were out, so it was only Kyle and Ike in the house. The redhead had immediately heard the banging from downstairs and rushed into the hallway where Ike was standing by his bedroom door with a confused expression.

He only had a few seconds to decide; he called the first person who came to mind. “’Tophe!” he whispered furiously into the phone the second the other picked up, tightly grabbing his frightened little brother by the forearm and forcibly dragging him towards their bathroom. “Someone’s in the house, I don’t know if it’s a regular burglary or not but—” he heard crashing down stairs, shouts from men—“My brother’s here, he’s going to be in the bathroom while I go chase them away—”

_“Kyle—”_

“You make sure he stays safe, you hear me?” he hissed, shoving a protesting Ike into the bathroom. He hung up without another word and shoved his phone to the bewildered Canadian, his dark eyes wide with terror. “Call the cops, lock the door, and don’t open it for _anyone_ ,” the elder snapped, feeling a rush of adrenaline shoot through his body.

“Kyle—”

“No buts, Ike!” He slammed the door closed and rushed back into his own room, where he retrieved the baseball bat he stored in the corner. He made his way carefully and silently towards the staircase, waiting at the first couple of steps down, his heart hammering in his ears.  But whoever the people were, they were already down with their search downstairs and had already been making their way up. Their eyes locked, green to unfamiliar black, and Kyle gripped his bat tight. “Who the fuck—” he began, but they started to charge at him before he even finished asking the question.

Since Kyle was at the top of the staircase, he had the tactical advantage—he steeled his resolve and rooted himself to the spot, swinging his bat at the first assailant the second he was close enough. The other attempted to block it with his arm, cursing at the redhead as pain shot through the limb. Kyle managed to pull his weapon back and swung it again for another hit, but a second person came up from behind the other and grabbed him by his shirt. Kyle narrowed his eyes, seeing with uncanny foresight where this was leading and he rolled with it instead, barrelling himself downward and smashed bodily into the two on the stairs. As they went down, elbows and fists met him in retribution but Kyle bit right back, fury running hot in his veins, every strike against him only fuelling the fire. They crashed at the bottom of the stairs solidly, Kyle threatened to be crushed between the two bodies. He kicked out, punched, felt sick satisfaction when he elbowed another guy’s nose hard enough to break the cartilage and make him bleed.

“You fuckers!” the Jersey Jew snarled, rearing his hand back to punch the guy below him. “You come into _my fucking house—_ ” He managed to land a solid punch to the guy below him before he made to stand up, but was dragged to the ground again by someone suddenly grabbing his legs. He was going to kick the fucker in the face but a third pair of hands were suddenly on him, and then he felt a tell-tale prick of something thin harshly piercing his neck. “ _Fuck—_ ”

His vision suddenly blurred, feeling nauseated. He felt himself being hit, and then he was out in minutes. His last shred of awareness was that more men had burst into the house, and shots had been fired.

When he came to, he was tied up to a chair facing strangers in a dark, unfamiliar place. They had a lot of demands.

Where is The Mole?

Are you working for him?

We know your trade, _hacker_.

How much is he paying you?

We have a proposition. Work for us, and we won’t kill you.

Where is _The Mole_?

Kyle responded by spitting in their faces, and he was tortured for four hours.

He was black and blue and red when they finally found him. He had woken up to the sound of shifting and he was frightened that they were going to hurt him again. His swollen, bloodshot eyes barely recognised the brunette in front of him, hearing the Frenchman’s words as if he was underwater. He was untied and then hauled out of his seat, gentle but urgent. He was passed over to another familiar person, blonde, hazel eyes, his face pinched in a rare show of concern. He was ushered into their escape tunnel, Kyle realising they were missing a person and panicking.

“C-Chri—”

“Mole’s staying back,” the low baritone of the British man said to him calmly, darkly. “He needs to send a message.” Then the hands supporting him tightened. “Did you say anything?”

Kyle shouldn’t have had the energy to be angry, but he was. He spat, “No.”

Gregory’s hands loosened and he said nothing else for the rest of their escape.

Kyle didn’t remember much of Gregory fixing him up back in their apartment. He was given drugs that he was helpless to refuse, but it immediately took the pain away so he supposed it was okay. He didn’t know how long he was out for, but when he gained back an acceptance resemblance to consciousness, he was in a room he’d never been in before.

“’T-Tophe…?” he croaked.

“No. Just me.”

It was Gregory. Kyle’s vision sharpened and he could finally make out where he was. The first thing he idly noticed was that this room had a tad more substance than the living room of the apartment. There was a small shelf of books that he couldn’t make out the names of just yet; there was desk and a lamp; there as a cutlass hoisted on a stand. The cutlass was a giveaway. He was in Gregory’s room.

Someone approached him from the side and Kyle instinctively stiffened, biting his lip nervously.

“Ssh,” the blonde said, looking over him. “You’re safe.” He brushed some hair from his face; Kyle barely felt the touch.

“H-How long—?”

“It’s the day after,” Gregory supplied, sitting on a chair that had been beside the bed. He looked tired.

“Ike?”

“Safe. With his parents.”

Tension eased from his shoulders. “What happened?” Kyle whispered. He sat up, wincing as his whole body ached. Gregory helped him, a solid hand on his back.

“They were there for you,” the Brit answered, his voice neutral. When Kyle glanced at him to explain, he did told the story calmly.

Just as they predicted, more people had been sent, but contrary to their expectations, it wasn’t primarily for Kyle’s father. It turned out that their target had been the defective mercenary—the alias that Gregory only ever supplied to others as ‘The Mole’—and they figured that the Broflovski family was a tie to him. But when they began to ask around in the underground, Loogie’s men had immediately been alerted of their snooping and rebuffed their every question, threatening them to leave the family alone and that they were under mob protection. They heeded the warning, but not before they managed to come into contact with an independent drug dealer—a student that they both knew by the name of Nathan.

It only made sense. Nathan was how Gregory had found out about Kyle’s hacking skills, after all. The kid was unaffiliated with the mob and Gregory cursed himself for overlooking that detail. It was through him that the hired contractors had the brilliant intuition of kidnapping the eldest Broflovski son. Nathan didn’t know of Gregory’s connection with The Mole, couldn’t _possibly_ , so he doubted that they were acting on anything more than a lucky hunch. Kyle was certainly a curious character and he was as good as any lead to find the phantom mercenary. They’d acted quickly, since they knew that they were under the radar of the South Park crime sector, which was why they hit so soon. After Kyle had been knocked out by the tranquiliser, the mob members who had been watching over the house had stormed in and attempted to stop the attack; gun shots were fired, many injured but not one killed, and somehow they still managed to whisk Kyle away. The watchmen’s numbers had been cut, despite the high alert, due to the prime target being out of town—they all thought that they were going to hit Gerald Broflovski, and so that was where they concentrated their forces.

“That’s no fucking excuse,” Kyle spat, a glare on his face as if Gregory was to blame. “You said that they’d be protected. _Ike_ was there.”

“I know,” Gregory said wearily. “I’ll have a talk with Loogie.”

“Gregory,” the redhead hissed, fury in his veins. “How can I trust them?”

_You **promised**._

To his merit, Gregory managed to hold Kyle’s cutting gaze. “It won’t happen again,” he said, and there was a flash in his hazel eyes, steeled them. It looked like determination. “Christophe rounded up the assailants and believe me, Kyle, after what Christophe did to them—your injuries look like a simple knee-scrape from a clumsy fall.” The blonde smiled humourlessly, cold. “They’re being kept alive, so that afterwards they’ll be the message that cautions others that the Broflovskis are not to be touched.”

Kyle frowned. “Afterwards?”

“After we had them confessing everything they knew, we’ve narrowed down a list of suspects of who their client may be. We’re going after them.”

The redhead’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He gawked at the other, disbelief on his face. “What?” He suddenly narrowed his eyes. “We’re going to kill them? The one who ordered the hit in the first place?”

Gregory chuckled. “Kyle, there are methods of making people cease and desist without ending their life. Death is messy—even messier if you’re rich, and a far shorter punishment in my opinion anyway. But if it comes to that—then, as a last resort, yes. We will.”

He was still a little stunned. “… I thought you said that you wouldn’t help in any personal vendettas.”

“This is different,” Gregory said dismissively, waving a hand. “They outright ignored our warning and went after our own—you, and as a means to get to Christophe and I. We protect our own, if nothing else.”

Kyle watched him for a moment, feeling strangely touched. He nodded wordlessly, not knowing if it was appropriate to say thanks.

Gregory kept his eyes on him.

“Kyle.”

He blinked in acknowledgement at the suddenly serious tone.

“You know you can’t go back.”

Kyle’s hands fisted on the bedsheets.

“Until your work with us is done, it’s far too dangerous to be with your family. We don’t know who else knows your face—knows your value. You’ve let yourself be seen, however minutely, and you’re now a person of interest in the underground. They can’t know that your family is a way to get to you.”

The redhead let out a loud sigh, the back of his head thumping against the wall behind him. He’d seen this coming a mile away; he knew that this had always been the inevitability. He didn’t know at what point exactly he actually accepted it; maybe it was when he acknowledged the obvious meaning of the sparse apartment: it was so empty because it had always just been a temporary home. Maybe he accepted it when he realised that he couldn’t imagine a life without Christophe—or Gregory—anymore. His body sagged and how pitiful he looked there, how small, with his bandages and bruises and purple-yellow skin. “I didn’t even fucking graduate. I was so fucking close,” he said, a bitter, disbelieving smile on his face. He laughed. “Fuck, I really wanted to be valedictorian.”

It was a laughable concept now, anyway. He’d lost the title even before this, when his grades began to drop due to his second life, and Kyle hadn’t really regretted it at all. Well, maybe he did a little right now, for just a short while. A moment of painful what-ifs.

Gregory smiled at him, small and sad and understanding—all too understanding. “So did I.”

* * *

It wasn’t like he had much to lose in the first place.

As the months went by—his life started to change six months ago; where had the time gone?—he had found himself drifting from his old life. He could barely look at his father anymore; his mother had always been a tyrant, and even though he loved her, he’d always wanted to escape her. He’d lost his friends because the secrecy was too much, made him feel detached from them. There was no one major fight that decided it; it was the accumulation of all these little fights, mostly between him and Stan, until finally his best friend just wasn’t his best friend anymore. If Kyle were honest with himself, they had never been the ‘super best friends’ since fourth grade. They just stuck together because it was familiar and because the fondness was still there, but they weren’t as close as they once were. Kenny would miss him, Kyle knew, but he’d always liked Stan better than him anyway. Cartman, well—

Kyle had a feeling that he’d be seeing Cartman again somewhere later down the track. He was destined for criminal activity and honestly, if he didn’t end up as some corrupt CEO of a multi-billion company or whatever, Kyle would eat his own hat. And then Kyle would come in, judge, jury, and executioner, and thwart his plans, just like the old days.

He wondered briefly about how messed up that was and found he didn’t really care. They’d always had a bizarre relationship.

There was only one person that Kyle stubbornly wanted to see before they left South Park for good, and he wouldn’t budge on the matter despite Gregory and Christophe’s warnings. Christophe should never have shown Kyle that text he received from his own mobile phone—the one that said:

**Bring back my brother or I will fucking kill you.**

It was from Ike; he’d used his phone to contact the person he’d last seen Kyle talking to before he disappeared—the person he had called first, before the police, before Stan. Perhaps it was a stubborn brotherly-connection thing, but Kyle warned that he’d shoot them in the legs if they didn’t let him see him one last time.

It was terribly risky. Using a disposable sim card, they set the time and place to meet, by Starks Pond at six in the morning. The second they saw each other, the brothers embraced, Ike nearly crushing Kyle’s lungs with how tight his hold was.

“Ike, listen carefully,” Kyle said, pulling back to look at his little brother’s face. Gregory and Christophe were standing a ways behind him by their car, watching.

Before Kyle could continue, the Canadian said, “You look like shit.”

He was still healing from the cuts and bruises, but it looked far better than what it was before. Kyle gave him a wry smile. “Better than what I looked like a week ago, trust me.” His smile was dropped from his face and he looked at the other seriously. “Ike. Listen. It’s not safe for me here anymore.”

Ike’s beady black eyes glanced at the two behind him. “Because of them?” he asked, and despite his youthful voice, there was coldness there.

“Believe it or not,” Kyle said quietly, “they were the ones who saved me. And dad, too.” He clasped Ike’s shoulders. “We’ve talked it over, and I’ve told them what you can do. I’ll be keeping in contact, okay? You may not hear from me much, but you’ll be able to reach me if you really need to—but always remember to be _careful_. There are people after dad, Ike. I’m protecting him away from home, but you need to keep an eye out, alright? You’re my insider. I know you’re smart enough to.”

He looked back at him again. “… So dad’s finally getting what’s coming to him, huh?”

Kyle was unable to read his brother’s eyes. “Not if we can help it,” he said quietly, a tightness in his chest.

“I’d rather he disappear than you.”

“Don’t say that, dude.” Kyle’s tone was sad.

The noirette rubbed at his eyes and then nodded jerkily. He glanced behind him again and pulled away completely to start making his way towards the watching mercenaries, the redhead glancing at him in confusion.

Seeing the younger Broflovski son approach them, the two were immediately on guard. Although Christophe maintained his slouched position, Gregory straightened a little, his eyes narrowing. The noirette stopped in front of them, Kyle walking up from behind him and shrugging. Ike just stared at them for a solid moment, dark eyes taking in their every feature, burning it into memory. It was rather unsettling.

“You protect my brother,” he said firmly, and he ignored the exasperated way Kyle said his name from behind him. “Because if he’s dead or broken—I’m going to hunt you down and kill you.”

“ _Ike_ ,” Kyle said, a little louder, irritated now.

The Canadian’s expression was stony. “I mean it.”

He was only twelve years old. The two veteran mercenaries believed him.

“You have our word,” Gregory said.

The look that Ike gave him then showed very clearly how little he thought of Gregory’s ‘word.’ It made the blonde bristle, but Ike nodded nevertheless and turned to face Kyle. “Can I at least tell ma that you’re alive?” he asked, quiet, his voice losing that coldness.

“Oh, yes.” Kyle rummaged through his bag for a pre-written letter. He handed it to his brother, who took it curiously. “My confession letter that states that I actually ran away to pursue a life of criminal intent,” he said simply, unable to keep the wry tone from his voice, his lips tilted in a bemused smile. “I’ll be the disgraced son. They won’t mourn me, and ma won’t brag about me to anyone.”

Ike couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re breaking her heart.”

Despite the other’s intentions, he felt a small pain in his chest. That was still his mother, no matter how else he felt about her. “Yeah, well. More love and pride will be focused on you then,” he replied, ruffling Ike’s black hair like he’d done a thousand times before, earning the scowl that was familiar.

“Are you sure you’re not just bailing on me?”

Kyle was going to miss him. “I’ll send postcards.”

“ _Unlikely_ ,” Gregory interrupted, breaking their brotherly moment. There was an instant glare on Ike’s face. “I hate to cut this touching moment short,” the blonde continued, quirking an eyebrow at the other in challenge, “but we need to leave.”

“Right…” the redhead mumbled. He looked at Ike intensely for a moment; he was going to remember him, just ike this. He quirked a half-smile. “See you, squirt.”

Ike tackled him in a tight embrace again. “Kyle, don’t go.”

His heart broke then.

“Sorry, Ike.”

* * *

Their first order of business was to find the one who started this whole mess in the first place. The person who had ordered the hit on Gerald—and then, on The Mole—was someone of Danish origin, a person who had some sort of strange vendetta against Gerald due to something that happened years ago. In any case, it took some work to confirm him as the culprit, and then a lot more work afterwards to find the necessary information to blackmail the shit out of him.

It was a rotten time, really, because deep in his heart of hearts, Kyle knew that he was the wronged party—he’d only wanted to see justice done. He knew it tore at Gregory especially doing this to him, but. Regardless of their righteousness, they had been warned. That was the only consolation that Kyle had and at least he wasn’t _dead_. He just needed to learn how to forgive and forget, and if he couldn’t forgive, then focus more on his family of three children and wife instead of his thirst for vengeance.

Kyle could only hope that was what he did. Only time would tell.

Afterwards, they ended up settling in Illinois. When they searched for apartments and set up their home, Kyle refused to let it become a twin of the sparse and _sad_ living space the previous apartment had been in South Park.

“I’m not going to live in sub-par living conditions, okay,” Kyle had snapped. “We’re getting a fucking T.V. and Netflix.”

“It’s not like we lived like _that_ all the time,” Gregory said, rolling his eyes. “It was only meant to be a _short_ stay.” He cast a meaningful glance at Christophe.

But the brunette was still holding a grudge, despite the time and everything they’d been through, and he ignored the look and the bait. At this point, Gregory was just exasperated with the Frenchman’s bitterness; he refused to baby it.

It was only until they were settled in their new home and life finally didn’t seem so _messy_ that Kyle broached the topic that had taken the backburner in the face of their professions.

“We’re going to talk,” he said firmly, green eyes shining with determination.

They were in the living room, Gregory and Christophe on opposite ends of their new, beige-coloured couch. Kyle had stopped them from retreating into their respective rooms and literally made them sit so that they could have a _mature_ conversation. He planted his own ass on the coffee table in front of them, a good enough seat as any; he doubted that the two would appreciate literally being talked down to like actual children.

“So, I’m just going to address the elephant in the room,” Kyle said calmly; despite his straightforward tone, he was nervous, his heart hammering in his chest. This could go either wrong or really right depending on how he played his cards, on how the two responded. Kyle had to tread carefully. “You two have sexual tension as thick as fucking anything I’ve seen, and you need to _acknowledge_ that otherwise we’re _all_ going to get a fucking aneurysm.”

Okay, maybe he said that more bluntly than he meant to.

Christophe tossed him a sharp, indignant glare and Gregory just stared at him blankly. Before a certain bad-mouthed brunette could begin spitting curses at him, Kyle hastily went on. “’Tophe, I _like_ you.” That effectively made said Frenchman shut up; he never did well with verbal confessions of affection. The fact that he was looking at him like that gave Kyle hope. “I really, really do,” he said earnestly, wanting him to see the truth. He dared to reach out and put his hand on top of his, which were resting on his lap. He was tense beneath his palm. “I want us to go back to how we were.”

The other flickered his gaze to the side, towards Gregory, his lips pursed. Despite any lack of words, his message was loud and clear.

“And…” Kyle sighed, slipping his hand away. “Gregory likes you too.”

“Excuse me?” said blonde snapped, hackles raised. “What gives you—”

“Shut up, Gregory,” Kyle said bluntly, sending the other a deadpan glare. “I’m doing you a fucking favour, okay. I’m trying to get us to agree to a fucking _threesome_ here, so you’ve got to meet me halfway, dude.”

“ _Sentiment_ doesn’t need to be involved with such a thing—”

Kyle’s eyes flashed dangerously. “It does for _me_.”

A tense silence, the admittance a little winding. Gregory searched him. “So you also… care for _me_ ,” he clarified, gaze disbelieving.

Kyle’s eyes flickered to Christophe briefly; the brunette was clenching his teeth together, his expression pinched and his hands fisted on his lap. Kyle resisted the urge to sigh, trying to calm his hectic nerves. This was hard, but it had to be done; he wagered everything on these two, on _them_ , and he knew it could work, his gut _told_ him it could, they could be something _beautiful_ —

“Of course I do,” he said quietly, looking back at Gregory to meet his eyes. “Don’t you care for me?”

And that was the crux of the matter, really. Kyle didn’t know, hadn’t even had an inkling that Gregory might have had those feelings until the spontaneous kiss—and even then Kyle suspected, no, _knew_ it was just an experiment. It hadn’t meant anything then.

Gregory didn’t answer, his expression unreadable; Kyle wondered if he was engaged in some sort of inner conflict with himself, or whether he had been terribly wrong and the blonde actually felt nothing for him after all. He felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment, his chest tight. Gregory, seeing his expression, realised he’d been silent for too long and he opened his mouth to say something—

“Enough,” came Christophe’s gruff voice. They turned their heads to look at him. He was keeping eye contact with Kyle, also having noticed his expression. “I told you already, Kyle. ‘E does not know _how_ to love.” His eyes darkened, didn’t move from his face. “And I refuse to share you with someone like that. I don’t _want_ to.”

Kyle looked a little helpless then and he glanced desperately at Gregory, begging him with his eyes to say something. He _had_ to say something—Kyle couldn’t do this on his own. Strangely enough, Gregory’s usually sharp-witted tongue was like lead in his mouth; he didn’t know what exactly to say. He felt backed into a corner and there was a pressure in his temple; he wasn’t prepared for this.

Christophe shifted, looking as if he’d actually had enough and was going to leave. The movement spurred Gregory into action at least.

“Fuck you, Christophe.”

The rare curse from the British man caused the two to stiffen, eyes widening with surprise. Christophe remained in his seat and he slowly turned his body to finally face the blonde. Gregory’s hazel eyes were narrowed, thoroughly pissed off, at him, at Kyle, at himself—at everything. “What makes you think that I’m so emotionally stunted that I can’t feel _love_?” he spat.

The Frenchman’s gaze sharpened. “Because you’re a cold and conniving bastard,” he answered bluntly. “You think yourself ‘igher zan anyone else—no one is ever _good_ enough for you. You’re a faggot god in your mind and ze rest of us are _ants_ , little soldiers that you direct and play with for your own means. You cannot love, just as we cannot love ants.”

The silence was so thick that they could hear a pin drop. Kyle gaped, just watching this train-wreck happening before his very eyes, not sure if he should let it run its course or stop it. He chose the former, because well—they were actually fucking _talking_ for once.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you,” Gregory said, his tone like ice. “You don’t know anything. Just because I’m not _thirsty_ for affection like _you_ are doesn’t mean I don’t have needs. I’m just not as obvious as you are.”

Christophe bared his teeth. “See! Zis is what I’m fucking talking about!” he snapped. “You’re fucking _cold_ , Gregory. Zere is no softness to you—when we fuck, eet’s just to _fuck_ , so why the hell did you touch what was not even _yours—_ ”

“That’s rich, Christophe, really,” Gregory interrupted, and finally, there was heat in his voice. “You talking about ‘love’ when you can’t even say that you _love_ anyone yourself, can you?” He glanced at Kyle. “Tell me,” he said, a sudden, cruel smile on his face, “has he ever told you that he _loved_ you?”

“Don’t bring him into zis!” Christophe raged, his hand shooting out and grabbing Gregory by the front of his shirt.

Hazel eyes snapped back to dark bistre again. “Why?” he asked, mocking. “I’m only asking a simple question. Here you are berating me for being incapable of feeling love; I was just curious if you actually had anything to back that. If _you_ don’t feel it either, you know what that makes you, my friend? It makes you a fucking _hypocrite—_ ”

“I swear to the faggot God, Gregory, I’m—”

“What?” the blonde demanded, and they didn’t realise their faces had drawn up so close, the heat between them electrifying, their breaths mingling in an angry intimacy. “You’re going to punish me? How?” His smile was poison. “Kill me? Beat me? Or maybe, my favourite—” his voice dropped an octave or two—“maybe you want to _fuck_ me, like you’ve done before?”

Fury ignited in Christophe’s eyes, a familiar look passing across his face, and for a moment Gregory thought he was going to kiss him. But the brunette only shoved him away hatefully and stood up, storming away and slamming his bedroom door closed behind him, loud and resolute.

Kyle and Gregory were left alone in the living room, stunned and still a little reeling.

Finally, Kyle released a shaky breath from his seat at the table, emerald-green eyes conflicted. “… You’re hard to love, Gregory,” he whispered at last, breaking the silence. “You’ve got barbs; you’re cold.”

Gregory stared at Christophe’s door. “I know.”

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “If you can only just _entertain_ the idea that Christophe may actually like you for a _moment_ —” he met Gregory’s doubting eyes—“then you would have hurt him, you know.”

The blonde looked back towards the door.

“ _Go_ ,” Kyle said, wearily. “Go to him, you fucking idiot.”

Gregory frowned, meeting his eyes again. “… You’re okay with that?” he asked, wary.

Kyle smiled self-deprecatingly. “I got to be,” he said. “I proposed this fucking thing in the first place, remember? And honestly, after seeing that display, I’m actually one hundred percent sure now that you guys just need to fuck it out of our systems.” He waved his hand. “Go, before I fucking punch you in your goddamn face.”

Gregory looked at him with a strange expression then, taking him in in his entirety, before he wordlessly nodded and stood up. Quietly, he padded across the room and into the hallway, where he braced himself for a second at Christophe’s door and then turned the handle. It was unlocked, and he slipped inside, closing the door behind him softly.

Kyle watched him until he disappeared and then he rolled his eyes skyward, acknowledging the clenching in his chest and forcing himself to accept it like a bitter pill. He smiled at no one in particular, chuckling. “What a couple of goddamn idiots.” He stood up, looked around the room idly, and promptly decided that he needed to go buy some new fucking curtains, because the brightly coloured orange ones that came with the apartment were fucking disgusting.

* * *

When he came back, new curtains and a few other decorative pieces in tow, he almost lost his balance at the sudden embrace by a particular brunette the second he stepped through the door. Kyle dropped his bags in surprise, the items landing with a solid _thunk_ on their wooden floors, as Christophe knelt in front of him and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist, burying his face into his stomach.

“I’m sorry, mon cher, I’m sorry,” Christophe said against the clothed skin. “I’m sorry—”

Alarmed, he put his hands on the other’s broad shoulders, casting a confused gaze around until he met eyes with Gregory. Kyle immediately noticed his tousled look, his white dress shirt crinkled and hastily thrown back on, the top few buttons not even clasped. Gregory was watching the scene with unreadable eyes, his arms crossed and his shoulder leaning against the wall. Kyle looked down at the brunette wrapped like a child around him again and softly raked his fingers through the soft and slightly sweaty hair, urging him to tilt his head back to look at him.

“Why are you sorry?” Kyle asked softly. And when their eyes met, tortured brown to gentle emerald, Kyle silently told him that it was _okay_.

Christophe’s face was pinched and he looked conflicted, as if he could barely understand himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, imploring, desperate, chasing the reassurance Kyle offered like a hungry man, “I—I want both.” It fell from his lips unbidden, but it was out now, unable to be retracted. “I want…”

Kyle hushed him, continued to stroke his fingers soothingly into his hair. “Okay,” he said simply. “You can have both.” He knelt down with Christophe, kissing him on his forehead, missing the way the brunette had closed his eyes as if in pain. “It’s okay.” Kyle looked beyond Christophe, who had buried his face into the crook of his neck, towards the unmoving blonde. With one hand soothingly in the other’s hair, Kyle reached out for him, an open palm skyward.

An invitation.

Gregory hesitated for the briefest moment, but then he pushed himself off the wall and slowly advanced them. When he was in reach, he held out his own hand and clasped Kyle’s. The redhead never took his eyes off him and gently tugged him down, and Gregory allowed himself to be pulled so he crouched rather than knelt beside the two. His facial expression was of obvious discomfort, not used to this strange intimacy, this unusual display of open emotions. He looked a little shaken and for a moment Kyle wondered what they’d done in the bedroom while he was gone. The thought wasn’t accompanied by bitterness, to his surprise—just pure, innocent curiosity, and hope bloomed in his heart that maybe this could really, truly _work_. He tightened his grip on Gregory’s hand.

“We can have both,” Kyle said, amending his first statement, keeping eye contact with Gregory. “We’ll make it work.” He looked away finally to kiss Christophe tenderly on his temple. “We’ll be okay.”

And just like that, with Christophe embracing him tightly and Gregory awkwardly clutching at his hand, Kyle felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

They were an unconventional three—a family of mercenaries, of dangerous, bittersweet things.

They were going to be fighting an uphill battle, due to the fact that stubbornness ran thick and true in each of them, but eventually, Kyle had hope that they would be able to teach each other some important few things—

Like how to love; like how to trust.

Like how to be happy. 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY ;A; Okay, the Gregstophski fics after this are gonna be more fluffy/steamy stuff because gdi, I have so many headcanons and these BOYS. Just--URGH. I could have kept on going indefinitely but then the length of this would have just been plain ridiculous. I love them. One fic/chapter is definitely gonna be smut tho like, mmhm B)


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